LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE  .^ 


CHARLES S,  PRATT 

New  and  Old  Books 

1616th  Ave.  N.Y. 

|ANY  BOOK  YOU    WANT 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury 


< 


A  House  in  Bloomshury 


MRS.  OLIPHANT 


Xew  York 
Intematior-al  Association  of  Newspapers  and  Authors 

1901 


Copyright,   1894,  bt 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

All  rigbti  reserved. 


WORTH  RIVER  BINDERY  CO. 

PRINTERS  AND  BINDERS 

NEW  YOR5C 


A  HOUSE  IN  BLOOMSBURY. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  Father,"  said  Dora,  "  I  am  going  upstairs  for 
a  little,  to  see  Mrs.  Hesketh,  if  you  have  no 
objection." 

"And  who  is  Mrs.  Hesketh,  if  I  might  make 
so  bold  as  to  ask?"  Mr.  Mannering  said,  lifting 
his  eyes  from  his  evening  paper. 

"  Father!  I  told  you  all  about  her  on  Sunday 
— that  she's  all  alone  all  day,  and  sometimes  her 
husband  is  so  late  of  getting  home.  She  is  so 
lonely,  poor  litde  thing.  And  she  is  such  a  nice 
litde  thing !     Married,  but  not  so  big  as  me." 

"And  who  is her  husband?"  Mr.  Man- 
nering was  about  to  say,  but  he  checked  himself. 
No  doubt  he  had  heard  all  about  the  husband  too. 
He  heard  many  things  without  hearing  them, 
being  conscious  rather  of  the  pleasant  voice  of 
Dora  running  on  than  of  everything  she  said. 

This  had,  no  doubt,  been  the  case  in  respect 
to  the  young  couple  upstairs,  of  whose  existence 
he  had  become  dimly  sensible  by  reason  of  meet- 
ing one  or  other  of  them  on  the  stairs.  But  there 
was  nothing  in  the  appearance  of  either  which 
had  much  attracted  him.     They  appeared  to  him 

I 


2  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

a  commonplace  couple  of  inferior  kind  ;  and  per- 
haps had  he  been  a  man  with  all  his  wits  keenly 
about  him,  he  would  not  have  allowed  his  child 
to  run  wild  about  the  little  woman  upstairs.  But 
Mr.  Mannering  did  not  keep  his  wits  about  him 
sharpened  to  any  such  point. 

Dora  was  a  child,  but  also  she  was  a  lady, 
proof  against  any  contamination  of  acquaintance 
which  concerned  only  the  letters  of  the  alphabet. 
Her  "  h's  "  could  take  care  of  themselves,  and  so 
could  her  "r's".  As  for  anything  else,  Mr. 
Mannering's  dreamy  yet  not  unobservant  eyes 
had  taken  in  the  fact  that  the  young  woman,  who 
was  not  a  lady,  was  an  innocent  and  good  little 
woman  ;  and  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  be 
afraid  of  any  chance  influence  of  such  a  kind  for 
his  daughter.  He  acquiesced,  accordingly,  with 
a  little  nod  of  his  head,  and  return  of  his  mild 
eyes  to  his  paper. 

These  two  were  the  best  of  companions  ;  but 
he  was  not  jealous  of  his  little  girl,  nor  did  he 
desire  that  she  should  be  for  ever  in  his  sight. 
He  liked  to  read  his  paper;  sometimes  he  had  a 
book  which  interested  him  very  much.  The 
thought  that  Dora  had  a  litde  interest  in  her  life 
also,  special  to  herself,  pleased  him  more  than  if 
she  had  been  always  hanging  upon  him  for 
her  amusement  and  occupation.  He  was  not 
afraid  of  the  acquaintance  she  might  make,  which 
was  a  little  rash,  perhaps,  especially  in  a  man  who 
had  known  the  world,  and  knew,  or  ought  to  have 
known,  the  mischief  that  can  arise  from  unsuitable 
associates. 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  3 

But  there  are  some  people  who  never  learn  ; 
indeed,  few  people  learn  by  experience,  so  far  as 
I  have  ever  seen.  Dora  had  been  an  independent 
individuality  to  her  father  since  she  was  six  years 
old.  He  had  felt,  as  parents  often  feel  with  a 
curious  mixture  of  feelings,  half  pleasure,  half  sur- 
prise, half  disappointment  (as  if  there  could  be 
three  halves  1  the  reader  will  say ;  but  there  are, 
and  many  more),  that  she  was  not  very  much  in- 
fluenced by  himself,  who  was  most  near  to  her. 
If  such  things  could  be  weighed  in  any  balance, 
he  was  most,  it  may  be  said,  influenced  by  her. 
She  retained  her  independence.  How  was  it 
possible  then  that,  conscious  of  this,  he  should  be 
much  alarmed  by  any  problematical  influence  that 
could  be  brought  to  bear  upon  her  by  a  stranger  ? 
He  was  not,  indeed,  the  least  afraid, 

Dora  ran  up  the  stairs,  which  were  dark  at  the 
top,  for  Mrs.  Simcox  could  not  afford  to  let  her 
lodgers  who  paid  so  low  a  rent  have  a  light  on 
their  landing ;  and  the  landing  itself  was  encum- 
bered by  various  articles,  between  which  there 
was  need  of  wary  steering.  But  this  little  girl 
had  lived  in  these  Bloomsbury  lodgings  all  her 
life,  and  knew  her  way  about  as  well  as  the 
children  of  the  house.  Matters  were  facilitated, 
too,  by  the  sudden  opening  of  a  door,  from  which 
the  light  and,  sad  to  say,  something  of  the  smell 
of  a  paraffin  lamp  shone  out,  illuminating  the  rosy 
face  of  a  young  woman,  with  a  piece  of  sewing  in 
her  hand,  who  looked  out  in  bright  expectation, 
but  clouded  over  a  little  when  she  saw  who  it  was. 
"  Oh,   Miss   Dora ! "  she  said ;   and  added  in  an 


4  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

undertone,  "  I  thought  it  M'as  Alfred  home  a  litde 
sooner  than  usual,"  with  a  little  sigh. 

"  I  made  such  a  noise,"  said  Dora,  apologeti- 
cally. *'  I  couldn't  help  it.  Jane  will  leave  so 
many  things  about." 

"  Oh,  it's  me,  Miss  Dora.  I  does  my  rooms 
myself;  it  saves  a  deal  on  the  rent.  I  shouldn't 
have  left  that  crockery  there,  but  it  saves  trouble, 
and  I'm  not  that  used  to  housework." 

"No,"  said  Dora,  seating  herself  composedly 
at  the  table,  and  resisting,  by  a  strong  exercise  of 
self-control,  her  impulse  to  point  out  that  the  lamp 
could  not  have  been  properly  cleaned,  since  it 
smelt  so.  "  One  can  see,"  she  added,  the  fact 
being  incontestable,  "  that  you  don't  know  how  to 
do  many  things.  And  that  is  a  pity,  because 
thinofs  then  are  not  so  nice." 

She  seemed  to  cast  a  glance  of  criticism  about 
the  room,  to  poor  little  Mrs.  Hesketh's  excited 
fancy,  who  was  ready  to  cry  with  vexation.  "  My 
family  always  kep'  a  girl,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of 
injury  subdued.  But  she  was  proud  of  Dora's 
friendship,  and  would  not  say  any  more. 

"So  I  should  have  thought,"  said  Dora,  critical, 
yet  accepting  the  apology  as  if,  to  a  certain  extent, 
it  accounted  for  the  state  of  affairs. 

"  And  Alfred  says,"  cried  the  young  wife,  "  that 
if  we  can  only  hold  on  for  a  year  or  two,  he'll 
make  a  lady  of  me,  and  I  shall  have  servants  of 
my  own.  But  we  ain't  come  to  that  yet — oh,  not 
by  a  long  way." 

"It  is  not  havincj  servants  that  makes  a  ladv," 
said  Dora.     "  We  are  not  rich."     She  said  tnis 


A  House  in  Bloomsbiiry.  5 

with  an  ineffable  air  of  superiority  to  all  such 
vulgar  details.  "  I  have  never  had  a  maid  since 
I  was  quite  a  little  thing."  She  had  always  been 
herself  surprised  by  this  fact,  and  she  expected 
her  hearer  to  be  surprised.  "  But  what  does  that 
matter?"  she  added.  "One  is  oneself  all  the 
same." 

"  Nobody  could  look  at  you  twice,"  said  the 
admiring  humble  friend.  "  And  how  kind  of  you 
to  leave  your  papa  and  all  your  pretty  books  and 
come  up  to  sit  with  me  because  I'm  so  lonely !  It 
is  hard  upon  us  to  have  Alfred  kep'  so  late  every 
night." 

"Can't  he  help  it?"  said  Dora.  "If  I  were 
you,  I  should  go  out  to  meet  him.  The  streets 
are  so  beautiful  at  night." 

"Oh,  Miss  Dora!"  cried  the  little  woman, 
shocked.  "He  wouldn't  have  me  go  out  by  my- 
self, not  for  worlds  !  Why,  somebody  might  speak 
to  me  !  But  young  girls  they  don't  think  of  that, 
I  sometimes  wish  I  could  be  taken  on  among  the 
young  ladies  in  the  mantle  department,  and  then 
we  could  walk  home  together.  But  then,"  she 
added  quickly,  "  I  couldn't  make  him  so  comfort- 
able, and  then " 

She  returned  to  her  work  with  a  smile  and  a 
blush.  She  was  always  very  full  of  her  work, 
making  little  "things,"  which  Dora  vaguely  sup- 
posed were  for  the  shop.  Their  form  and  fashion 
threw  no  light  to  Dora  upon  the  state  of  affairs. 

"  When  you  were  in  the  shop,  were  you  in 
the  mantle  department  ?  "   she  asked. 

"  Oh,  no.     My  figure  isn't  good  enough,"  said 


6  A  House  in  Bloouzsbury. 

Mrs.  Hesketh  ;  "  you  have  to  have  a  very  good 
figure,  and  look  like  a  lady.  Some  of  the  youno 
ladies  have  beautiful  figures,  Miss  Dora ;  and  such 
nice  black  silks — as  nice  as  any  lady  would  wish 
to  wear — which  naturally  sets  them  off." 

"  And  nothing  to  do } "  said  Dora,  con- 
temptuously.    "  I  should  not  like  that." 

"  Oh,  you  !  But  they  have  a  deal  to  do.  I've 
seen  'em  when  they  were  just  dropping  down  with 
tiredness.  Standing  about  all  day,  and  putting 
on  mantles  and  things,  and  pretending  to  walk 
away  careless  to  set  them  off.  Poor  things!  I'd 
rather  a  deal  stand  behind  the  counter,  though 
they've  got  the  best  pay." 

**  Have  you  been  reading  anything  to-day  ?  " 
said  Dora,  whose  attention  was  beginning  to  flag. 

Mrs.  Hesketh  blushed  a  little.  "  I've  scarcely 
sat  down  all  day  till  now;  I've  been  having  a 
regular  clean-out.  You  can't  think  how  the  dust 
gets  into  all  the  corners  with  the  fires  and  all  that. 
And  I've  just  been  at  it  from  morning  till  night. 
I  tried  to  read  a  little  bit  when  I  had  my  tea. 
And  it's  a  beautiful  book,  Miss  Dora,  but  I  was 
that  tired." 

"It  can  scarcely  take  a  whole  day,"  said  Dora, 
looking  round  her,  "  to  clean  out  this  one  little 
room." 

"  Oh,  but  you  can't  think  what  a  lot  of  work 
there  is,  when  you  go  into  all  the  corners.  And 
then  I  get  tired,  and  it  makes  me  stupid." 

"Well,"  said  Dora,  with  suppressed  impatience, 
*'  but  when  you  become  a  lady,  as  you  say,  with 
servants  to  do  all  you  want,  how  will  you  be  able 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  7 

to  take  up  a  proper  position  if  you  have  never  read 
anything  ? " 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hesketh  in  a  tone 
of  relief,  "  that  can't  be  for  a  long  time  yet ;  and 
you  feel  different  when  you're  old  to  what  you  do 
when  you're  young." 

*'  But  I  am  young,"  said  Dora.  She  changed 
the  subject,  however,  more  or  less,  by  her  next 
question.  "  Are  you  really  fond  of  sewing  ? "  she 
said  in  an  incredulous  tone  ;  "  or  rather,  what  are 
you  most  fond  of  ?     What  should  you  like  best  to 

do?" 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  little  wife,  with  large  open 
eyes  and  mouth — she  fell  off,  however,  into  a  sigh 
and  added,  "  if  one  ever   had  what  one  wished 

most ! " 

"And  why  not?"  said  inexperienced  Dora. 
"  At  least,"  she  added,  "  it's  pleasant  to  think,  even 
if  you  don't  have  what  you  want.  What  should 
you  like  best  ?  " 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Hesketh  again,  but  this  time 
with  a  long-drawn  breath  of  longing  consciousness, 
"  I  should  like  that  we  might  have  enough  to  live 
upon  without  working,  and  Alfred  and  me  always 
to  be  toeether, — that's  what  I  should  like  best." 

"  Money?"  cried  Dora  with  irrepressible  scorn. 

"Oh,  Miss  Dora,  money!  You  can't  think 
how  nice  it  would  be  just  to  have  enough  to  live 
on.  I  should  never,  never  wish  to  be  extravagant, 
or  to  spend  more  than  I  had ;  just  enough  for 
Alfred  to  give  up  the  shop,  and  not  be  bound  down 
to  those  long  hours  any  more !  " 

"And  how  much  might  that  be?"  said  Dora, 


8  A  House  in  Dloomsbury. 

with  an  air  of  grand  yet  indulgent  magnificence, 
as  if,  though  scorning  this  poor  ideal,  she  might 
yet  perhaps   find   it  possible  to  bestow  upon  her 
friend   the  insignificant   happiness   for  which   she,- 
sighed.  I 

"  Oh,  Miss  Dora,  when  you  think  how  manyj 
things  are  wanted  in  housekeeping,  and  one's 
dress,  and  all  that — and  probably  more  than  us," 
said  Mrs.  Hesketh,  with  a  bright  blush.  She  too 
looked  at  the  girl  as  if  it  might  have  been  within 
Dora's  power  to  give  the  modest  gift.  "  Should 
you  think  it  a  dreadful  lot,"  said  the  young 
woman,  "  if  I  said  two  hundred  a  year?" 

"Two  hundred  pounds  a  year?"  said  Dora 
reflectively.  "  1  think,"  she  added,  after  a  pause, 
"  father  has  more  than  twice  as  much  as  that." 

"La!"  said  Mrs.  Hesketh;  and  then  she 
made  a  rapid  calculation,  one  of  those  efforts  of 
mental  arithmetic  in  which  children  and  simple 
persons  so  often  excel.  "  He  must  be  saving  up 
a  lot,"  she  said  admiringly,  "for  your  fortune. 
Miss  Dora.  You'll  be  quite  an  heiress  with  all 
that." 

This  was  an  entirely  new  idea  to  Dora,  who 
knew  of  heiresses  only  what  is  said  in  novels, 
where  it  is  so  easy  to  bestow  great  fortunes. 
"  Oh  no,  I  shall  not  be  an  heiress,"  she  said ; 
"and  I  don't  think  we  save  up  very  much. 
Father  has  always  half  a  dozen  pensioners,  and 
he  buys  books  and — things."  Dora  had  a  feel- 
ing that  it  was  something  mean  and  bourgeois — 
a  word  which  Mr.  Mannering  was  rather  apt  to 
use — to  save  up. 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  9 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Mrs.  Hesketh  again,  with  her 
countenance  falling.  She  was  not  a  selfish  or 
a  scheming  woman  ;  but  she  had  a  romantic 
imagination,  and  it  was  so  easy  an  exercise  of 
fancy  to  think  of  this  girl,  who  had  evidently 
conceived  such  a  friendship  for  herself,  as  "left" 
rich  and  solitary  at  the  death  of  her  delicate 
father,  and  adopting  her  Alfred  and  herself  as 
companions  and  guardians.  It  was  a  sudden 
and  passing  inspiration,  and  the  young  woman 
meant  no  harm,  but  there  was  a  visionary  dis- 
appointment in  her  voice. 

"  But,"  said  Dora,  with  the  impulse  of  a 
higher  cultivation,  "it  is  a  much  better  thing  to 
work  than  to  do  nothing.  When  father  is  at 
home  for  a  few  days,  unless  we  go  away  some- 
where, he  gets  restless  ;  and  if  he  were  always  at 
home  he  would  begin  some  new  study,  and  work 
harder  than  ever." 

"  Ah,  not  with  folks  like  us.  Miss  Dora,"  said 
Mrs.  Hesketh.  Then  she  added:  "A  woman 
has  always  got  plenty  to  do.  She  has  got  her 
house  to  look  after,  and  to  see  to  the  dinner  and 

things.     And  when  there  are  children "  Once 

more  she  paused  with  a  blush  to  think  over  that 
happy  prospect.  "  And  we'd  have  a  little 
garden,"  she  said,  **  where  Alfred  could  potter 
about,  and  a  litde  trap  that  we  could  drive  about 
in,  and  take  me  to  see  places,  and  oh,  we'd  be  as 
happy  as  the  day  was  long ! "  she  cried,  clasping 
her  hands.  The  clock  struck  as  she  spoke,  and 
she  hastily  put  away  her  sewing  and  rose  up. 
"You  won't  mind,  Miss  Dora,  if  I  lay  the  table 


lO  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

and  get  things  ready  for  supper?  Alfred  will 
soon  be  coming  now." 

"  Oh,  I  like  to  see  you  laying  the  table,"  said 
Dora,  "and  I'll  help  you — I  can  do  it  very  well. 
I  never  let  Jane  touch  our  nice  clean  tablecloths. 
Don't  you  think  you  want  a  fresh  one  ? "  she  said, 
looking  doubtfully  at  the  somewhat  dingy  linen. 
"  Father  always  says  clean  linen  is  the  luxury  of 
poor  people." 

••Oh!"  said  little  Mrs.  Hesketh.  She  did 
not  like  criticism  any  more  than  the  rest  of  us, 
nor  did  she  like  being  identified  with  "  poor 
people".  Mr.  Mannering's  wise  yet  foolish 
aphorism  (for  how  did  he  know  how  much  it  cost 
to  have  clean  linen  in  Bloomsbury — or  Belgravia 
either,  for  that  matter  ?)  referred  to  persons  in  his 
own  condition,  not  in  hers ;  but  naturally  she  did 
not  think  of  that.  Her  pride  and  her  blood  were 
up,  however;  and  she  went  with  a  little  hurry  and 
vehemence  to  a  drawer  and  took  out  a  clean 
tablecloth.  Sixpence  was  the  cost  of  washing, 
and  she  could  not  afford  to  throw  away  sixpences, 
and  the  other  one  had  only  been  used  three  or 
four  times ;  but  her  pride,  as  I  have  said,  was  up. 

**  And  where  are  the  napkins } "  said  Dora. 
"  I'll  lay  it  for  you.  I  really  like  to  do  it :  and  a 
nicely-laid  table,  with  the  crystal  sparkling,  and 
the  silver  shining,  and  the  linen  so  fresh  and 
smooth,  is  a  very  pretty  object  to  look  at,  father 
always  says." 

"Oh  dear!  I  must  hurry  up,"  cried  Mrs. 
Hesketh ;  "  I  hear  Alfred's  step  upon  the  stairs." 

Now  Dora  did  not  admire  Alfred,  though  she 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  ii 

was  fond  of  Alfred's  wife.  He  brought  a  sniff  of 
the  shop  with  him  ;  which  was  disagreeable  to  the 
girl,  and  he  called  her  "miss,"  which  Dora  hated. 
She  threw  down  the  tablecloth  hurriedly.  "  Oh, 
I'll  leave  you  then,"  she  cried,  "for  I'm  sure  he 
does  not  like  to  see  me  here  when  he  comes  in." 

*'  Oh,  Miss  Dora,  how  can  you  think  such  a 
thing  ? "  cried  her  friend  ;  but  she  was  glad  of  the 
success  of  her  expedient  when  her  visitor  dis- 
appeared. Alfred,  indeed,  did  not  come  in  for 
half  an  hour  after;  but  Mrs.  Hesketh  was  at 
liberty  to  make  her  little  domestic  arrangements 
in  her  own  way.  Alfred,  like  herself,  knew  that 
a  tablecloth  cost  sixpence  every  time  it  went  to 
the  wash — which  Dora,  it  was  evident,  did  not  do. 

Dora  found  her  father  reading  in  exactly  the 
same  position  as  she  had  left  him ;  he  had  not 
moved  except  to  turn  a  leaf  He  raised  his  head 
when  she  came  in,  and  said :  "  I  am  glad  you 
have  come  back,  Dora.  I  want  you  to  get  me  a 
book  out  of  that  bookcase  in  the  corner.  It  is  on 
the  third  shelf." 

**  And  were  you  so  lazy,  father,  that  you  would 
not  get  up  to  find  it  yourself.-* " 

"  Yes,  I  was  so  lazy,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 
'•  I  get  lazier  and  lazier  every  day.  Besides,  I 
like  to  feel  that  I  have  some  one  to  do  it  for  me. 
I  am  taking  books  out  of  shelves  and  putting 
them  back  again  all  the  day  long." 

Dora  put  her  arm  on  her  father's  shoulder,  as 
she  put  down  the  book  on  the  table  before  him. 
"  But  you  like  it,  don't  you,  father?  You  are  not 
tired  of  it." 


12  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

"  Of  the  Museum?  "  he  said,  with  a  laugh  and 
a  look  of  surprise.  "  No  ;  I  am  not  tired  of  it — 
any  more  than  I  am  of  my  life." 

This  was  an  enigmatical  reply,  but  Dora  did 
not  attempt  to  fathom  it.  "  What  the  little  people 
upstairs  want  is  just  to  have  money  enough  to 
live  on,  and  nothing  to  do,"  she  said. 

"  The  little  people?  And  what  are  you,  Dora? 
You  are  not  so  very  big." 

"  I  am  growing,"  said  Dora,  with  confidence ; 
"and  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  nothing  to  do  all 
my  life." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  that  view 
of  the  question,"  said  Mr.  Mannering.  "  I  am  not 
an  enthusiast  for  mere  work,  unless  there  is  some- 
thing to  come  out  of  it.  '  Know  what  thou  canst 
work  at'  does  not  apply  always,  unless  you  have 
to  earn  your  living,  which  is  often  a  very  fortunate 
necessity.  And  even  that,"  he  said,  with  a  smile, 
"has  its  drawbacks." 

"  It  is  surely  far  better  than  doing  nothing," 
cried  Dora,  with  her  young  nose  in  the  air. 

"Well,  but  what  does  it  come  to  after  all? 
One  works  to  live,  and  consumes  the  fruits  of 
one's  work  in  the  art  of  living.  And  what  better 
is  that  than  if  you  had  never  been  ?  The  balance 
would  be  much  the  same.  But  this  is  not  the  sort 
of  argument  for  little  girls,  even  though  they  are 
growing,"  Mr.  Mannering  said. 

"  I  think  the  Museum  must  have  been  very 
stuffy  to-day,  father,"  was  the  remark  which  Dora 
made. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Mannerings  lived  in  a  house  in  that  district 
of  Bloomsbury  which  has  so  long  meant  every- 
thing that  is  respectable,  mediocre,  and  dull, — at 
least,  to  that  part  of  the  world  which  inhabits 
farther  West.  It  is  possible  that,  regarded  from 
the  other  side  of  the  compass,  Bloomsbury  may 
be  judged  more  justly  as  a  city  of  well-sized  and 
well-built  houses,  aired  and  opened  up  by  many 
spacious  breathing-places,  set  with  stately  trees.  It 
is  from  this  point  of  view  that  it  is  regarded  by 
many  persons  of  humble  pretensions,  who  find  large 
rooms  and  broad  streets  where  in  other  districts 
they  would  only  have  the  restricted  space  of 
respectable  poverty,  the  weary  little  convention- 
ality of  the  suburban  cottage,  or  the  dingy  lodging- 
house  parlours  of  town. 

Bloomsbury  is  very  much  town  indeed,  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  the  roar  of  London;  but  it 
has  something  of  the  air  of  an  individual  place,  a 
town  within  a  town. 

The  pavements  are  wide,  and  so  are  the 
houses,  as  in  the  best  quarter  of  a  large  provincial 
city.  The  squares  have  a  look  of  seclusion,  of 
shady  walks,  and  retired  leisure,  which  there  is 
nothing  to  rival  either  in  Belgravia  or  Mayfair. 
It  is,  or  was — for  it  is  many  years  since  the 
present  writer  has  passed  over  their  broad  pave- 

(13) 


14  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

merits,  or  stood  under  the  large,  benignant,  and 
stately  shadow  of  the  trees  in  Russell  Square — 
a  region  apart,  above  fashion,  a  sober  heart  and 
centre  of  an  older  and  steadier  London,  such  as  is 
not  represented  in  the  Row,  and  takes  little  part 
in  the  rabble  and  rout  of  fashion,  the  decent 
town  of  earlier  days. 

I  do  not  mean  to  imply  by  this  that  the 
Mannerings  lived  in  Russell  Square,  or  had  any 
pretensions  to  be  regarded  among  the  magnates 
of  Bloomsbury  ;  for  they  were  poor  people,  quite 
poor,  living  the  quietest  life ;  not  rich  enough 
even  to  have  a  house  of  their  own  ;  mere  lodgers, 
occupying  a  second  floor  in  a  house  which  was 
full  of  other  lodgers,  but  where  they  retained  the 
importance  and  dignity  of  having  furnished  their 
own  rooms.  The  house  was  situated  at  the 
corner  of  a  street,  and  thus  gave  them  a  glimpse 
of  the  trees  of  the  Square,  a  view  over  the  gardens, 
as  the  landlady  described  it,  which  was  no  small 
matter,  especially  from  the  altitude  of  the  second 
floor.  The  small  family  consisted  of  a  father  and 
daughter — he,  middle-aged,  a  quiet,  worn,  and 
subdued  man,  employed  all  day  in  the  British 
Museum;  and  she,  a  girl  very  young,  yet  so  much 
older  than  her  years  that  she  v.as  the  constant 
and  almost  only  companion  of  her  father,  to 
whom  Dora  was  as  his  own  soul,  the  sharer  of  all 
his  thoughts,  as  well  as  the  only  brightness  in  his 
life. 

She  was  but  fifteen  at  the  time  when  this 
chapter  of  their  history  begins,  a  creature  in  short 
frocks  and  long  hair  slightly  curling  on  her  shoul- 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,   -  15 

ders  ;  taller,  if  we  may  state  such  a  contradiction 
in  words,  than  she  was  intended  to  be,  or  turned 
out  in  her  womanhood,  with  long  legs,  long 
neck,  long  fingers,  and  something  of  the  look  of  a 
soft-eyed,  timid,  yet  playfully  daring  colt,  flying 
up  and  down  stairs  as  if  she  had  wings  on  her 
shoulders,  yet  walking  very  sedately  by  the  side 
of  her  father  whenever  they  went  out  together, 
almost  more  steady  and  serious  than  he. 

Mr.  Mannering  had  the  appearance  of  being 
a  man  who  had  always  done  well,  yet  never  suc- 
ceeded in  life  ;  a  man  with  a  small  income,  and 
no  chance  of  ever  bettering  himself,  as  people 
say,  or  advancing  in  the  little  hierarchy  of  the 
great  institution  which  he  served  meekly  and 
diligently  in  the  background,  none  of  its  promo- 
tions ever  reaching  him. 

Scarcely  any  one,  certainly  none  out  of  that 
institution,  knew  that  there  had  been  a  period  in 
which  this  gentle  and  modest  life  had  almost  been 
submerged  under  the  bitterest  wave,  and  in  which 
it  had  almost  won  the  highest  honours  possible  to 
a  man  of  such  pursuits.  This  was  an  old  story, 
and  even  Dora  knew  little  of  it  He  had  done  so 
much  at  that  forgotten  and  troubled  time,  that, 
had  he  been  a  rich  man  like  Darwin,  and  able  to 
retire  and  work  in  quiet  the  discoveries  he  had 
made,  and  the  experiences  he  had  attained, 
Robert  Mannering's  name  might  have  been 
placed  in  the  rolls  of  fame  as  high  as  that  of  his 
more  fortunate  contemporary. 

But  he  was  poor  when  he  returned  from  the 
notable  wanderings  during  the  course  of  which 


1 6  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

he  had  been  given  up  as  dead  for  years,  poor  and 
heartbroken,  and  desiring  nothing  but  the  dim- 
mest corner  in  which  to  Hve  out  his  broken  days, 
and  just  enough  to  Hve  upon  to  bring  up  his  little 
daughter,  and  to  endure  his  existence,  his  duty 
to  God  and  to  Dora  forbidding  him  to  make  an 
end  of  it. 

It  would  be  giving  an  altogether  false  idea  of 
the  man  with  whom  this  book  is  to  be  much 
occupied,  to  say  that  he  had  continued  in  this 
despairing  frame  of  mind.  God  and  Dora— the 
little  gift  of  God — had  taken  care  of  that.  The 
little  girl  had  led  him  back  to  a  way  which,  if  not 
brilliant  or  prosperous,  was  like  a  field-path  through 
many  humble  flowers,  sweet  with  the  air  and 
breath  of  nature.  Sooth  to  say,  it  was  no  field- 
path  at  all,  but  led  chiefly  over  the  pavements  of 
Bloomsbury  ;  yet  the  simple  metaphor  was  not 
untrue. 

Thus  he  lived,  and  did  his  work  dutifully  day 
by  day.  No  headship  of  a  department,  no  assist- 
ant keepership  for  him;  yet  much  esteem  and  con- 
sideration among  his  peers,  and  a  constant  refer- 
ence, whenever  anything  in  his  special  sphere  was 
wanted,  to  his  boundless  information  and  know- 
ledge. Sometimes  a  foreign  inquirer  would  come 
eager  to  seek  him,  as  the  best  and  highest 
authority  on  this  subject,  to  the  consternation  of 
the  younger  men  in  other  branches,  who  could 
not  understand  how  anybody  could  believe  "old 
Mannering"  to  be  of  consequence  in  the  place; 
but  generally  his  life  was  as  obscure  as  he  wished 
it  to  be,  yet  not  any  hard  or  painful  drudgery ; 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  17 

for  he  was  still  occupied  with  the  pursuit  which 
he  had  chosen,  and  which  he  had  followed  all  his 
life  ;  and  he  was  wise  enough  to  recognise  and  be 
thankful  for  the  routine  which  held  his  broken 
existence  together,  and  had  set  up  again,  after 
his  great  disaster,  his  framework  as  a  man. 

Dora  knew  nothing  of  any  disaster  ;  and  this 
was  good  for  him  too,  bringing  him  back  to 
nature.  "A  cheerful  man  I  am  in  life,"  he  might 
have  said  with  Thackeray,  who  also  had  good 
reason  for  being  sad  enough,  A  man  who  has 
for  his  chief  society  a  buoyant,  curious,  new  spirit, 
still  trailing  clouds  of  glory  from  her  origin,  still 
only  making  acquaintance  with  things  of  earth, 
curious  about  everything,  asking  a  thousand  pene- 
trating questions,  awakening  a  mood  of  interest 
everywhere,  can  scarcely  be  otherwise  than  cheer- 
ful. 

The  second  floor  at  the  corner  of  the  Square 
which  was  inhabited  by  this  pair  consisted  of 
three  rooms,  all  good-sized  and  airy  ;  the  sitting- 
room  being  indeed  spacious,  larger  than  any  two 
which  could  have  been  found  in  a  fashionable 
nook  in  May  fair.  It  was  furnished,  in  a  manner 
very  unexpected  by  such  chance  visitors  as  did 
not  know  the  character  of  the  inhabitants,  with 
furniture  which  would  not  have  been  out  of  place 
in  Belgravia,  or  in  a  fine  lady's  drawing-room 
anywhere,  mingled  strangely  with  certain  plain 
pieces  put  in  for  evident  use. 

A  square  and  sturdy  table  occupied  the  por- 
tion of  the  room  which  was  nearest  to  the  door, 
with  the  clearest  utility,  serving  for  the  meals  of 

2 


1 8  A  House  in  Bloomsbury\ 

the  father  and  daughter,  while  the  other  part  of 
the  room,  partially  separated  by  a  stamped  leather 
screen,  had  an  air  of  subdued  luxury,  a  little  faded, 
yet  unmistakable.  The  curtains  were  of  heavy 
brocade,  which  had  a  little  lost  their  colour,  or 
rather  gained  those  shadings  and  reflections  which 
an  artist  loves ;  but  hung  with  the  softness  of 
their  silken  fabric,  profoundly  unlike  the  landlady's 
nice  fresh  crimson  rep  which  adorned  the  windows 
of  the  first  floor.  There  was  an  Italian  inlaid 
cabinet  against  the  farther  wall,  which  held  the 
carefully  prepared  sheets  of  a  herbarium,  which 
Mr.  Mannering  had  collected  from  all  the  ends 
of  the  earth,  and  which  was  of  sufficient  value  to 
count  for  much  in  the  spare  inheritance  which  he 
meant  for  his  only  child.  The  writing-table,  at 
which  Dora  had  learned  to  make  her  first  pot- 
hooks, was  a  piece  of  beautiful  marqueterie,  the 
oldest  and  most  graceful  of  its  kind. 

But  I  need  not  go  round  the  room  and  make  a 
catalogue  of  the  furniture.  It  settled  quite  kindly 
into  the  second  floor  in  Bloomsbury,  with  that 
grace  which  the  nobler  kind  of  patrician,  subdued 
by  fortune,  lends  to  the  humblest  circumstances, 
which  he  accepts  with  patience  and  goodwill. 
Mr.  Mannering  himself  had  never  been  a  hand- 
some man  ;  and  all  the  colour  and  brightness  of 
youth  had  died  out  of  him,  though  he  was  still  in 
the  fulness  of  middle  age.  But  the  ivory  tone  of 
his  somewhat  sharply  cut  profile  and  the  prema- 
ture stoop  of  his  shoulders  suited  his  surrounding 
better  than  a  more  vigorous  personality  would 
have  done. 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  19 

Dora,  in  her  half-grown  size  and  bigness,  with 
her  floating  hair  and  large  movements,  seemed  to 
take  up  a  great  deal  more  space  than  her  father ; 
and  it  was  strange  that  she  did  not  knock  down 
more  frequently  the  pretty  old-fashioned  things, 
and  the  old  books  which  lay  upon  the  little  tables, 
or  even  those  tables  themselves,  as  she  whisked 
about ;  but  they  knew  Dora,  and  she  knew  them. 
She  had  spent  a  great  part  of  every  day  alone 
with  them,  as  long  as  she  could  remember,  play- 
ing with  those  curiosities  that  lay  upon  them, 
while  she  was  a  child,  in  the  long,  silent,  dreamy 
hours,  when  she  was  never  without  amusement, 
though  as  constantly  alone. 

Since  she  had  grown  older,  she  had  taken 
pleasure  in  dusting  them  and  arranging  them,  ad- 
miring the  toys  of  old  silver,  and  the  carved  ivories 
and  trifles  of  all  kinds,  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
It  was  her  great  pleasure  on  the  Sunday  after- 
noons, when  her  father  was  with  her,  to  open  the 
drawers  of  the  cabinet  and  bring  out  the  sheets  of 
the  herbarium  so  carefully  arranged  and  classified. 
Her  knowledge,  perhaps,  was  not  very  scientific, 
but  it  was  accurate  in  detail,  and  in  what  may  be 
called  locality  in  the  highest  degree.  She  knew 
what  family  abode  in  what  drawer,  and  all  its 
ramifications.  These  were  more  like  neighbours 
to  Dora,  lodged  in  surrounding  houses,  than  speci- 
mens in  drawers.  She  knew  all  about  them,  where 
they  came  from,  and  their  genealogy,  and  which 
were  the  grandparents,  and  which  the  children  ; 
and,  still  more  interesting,  in  what  jungle  or  marsh 
her  father  had   found   them,  and  which  of  them 


20  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

came  from  the  African  deserts  in  which  he  had 
once  been  lost. 

By  degrees  she  had  found  out  much  about  that 
wonderful  episode  in  his  life,  and  had  become 
vaguely  aware,  which  was  the  greatest  discovery 
of  all,  that  it  contained  many  things  which  she  had 
not  found  out,  and  perhaps  never  would.  She 
knew  even  how  to  lead  him  to  talk  about  it,  which 
had  to  be  very  skilfully  done — for  he  was  shy  of 
the  subject  when  assailed  openly,  and  often  shrank 
from  the  very  name  of  Africa  as  if  it  stuno^  him ; 
while  on  other  occasions,  led  on  by  some  train  of 
thought  in  his  own  mind,  he  would  fall  into  long 
lines  of  recollections,  and  tell  her  of  the  fever 
attacks,  one  after  another,  which  had  laid  him  low, 
and  how  the  time  had  gone  over  him  like  a  dream, 
so  that  he  never  knew  till  long  after  how  many 
months,  and  even  years,  he  had  lost. 

Where  was  the  mother  all  this  time,  it  may  be 
asked  }  Dora  knew  no  more  of  this  part  of  her 
history  than  if  she  had  come  into  the  world  without 
need  of  any  such  medium,  like  Minerva  from  her 
father's  head. 

It  is  difficult  to  find  out  from  the  veiled  being 
of  a  little  child  what  it  thinks  upon  such  a  subject, 
or  if  it  is  aware  at  all,  when  it  has  never  been  used 
to  any  other  state  of  affairs,  of  the  strange  vacancy 
in  its  own  life.  Dora  never  put  a  single  question 
to  her  father  on  this  point ;  and  he  had  often  asked 
himself  whether  her  mind  was  dead  to  all  that  side 
of  life  which  she  had  never  known,  or  whether 
some  instinct  kept  her  silent ;  and  had  satisfied 
himself  at  last  that,  as  she  knew  scarcely  any  other 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  21 

children,  the  want  in  her  own  hfe  had  not  struck 
her  imagination.  Indeed,  the  grandchildren  of 
Mrs.  Simcox,  the  landlady,  were  almost  the  only 
children  Dora  had  ever  known  familiarly,  and  they, 
like  herself,  had  no  mother,  they  had  granny  ;  and 
Dora  had  inquired  of  her  father  about  her  own 
granny,  who  was  dead  long  ago. 

"  You  have  only  me,  my  poor  little  girl,"  he 
had  said.     But  Dora  had  been  quite  satisfied. 

"Janie  and  Molly  have  no  papa,"  she  answered, 
with  a  little  pride.  It  was  a  great  superiority, 
and  made  up  for  everything,  and  she  inquired  no 
more.  Nature,  Mr.  Mannering  knew,  was  by  no 
means  so  infallible  as  we  think  her.  He  did  not 
know,  however,  what  is  a  still  more  recondite  and 
profound  knowledge,  what  secret  things  are  in  a 
child's  heart. 

I  have  known  a  widowed  mother  who 
wondered  sadly  for  years  why  her  children 
showed  so  little  interest  and  asked  no  questions 
about  their  father ;  and  then  found  out,  from  the 
lips  of  one  grown  into  full  manhood,  what  visions 
had  been  wrapt  about  that  unknown  image,  and 
how  his  portrait  had  been  the  confidant  of  many 
a  little  secret  trouble  hidden  even  from  herself. 
But  Dora  had  not  even  a  portrait  to  give  embodi- 
ment to  any  wistful  thoughts.  Perhaps  it  was  to 
her  not  merely  that  her  mother  was  dead,  but 
that  she  had  never  been.  Perhaps — but  who 
knows  the  questions  that  arise  in  that  depth 
profound,  the  heart  of  a  child  ? 

It  was  not  till  Dora  was  fifteen  that  she 
received    the    great    shock,    yet    revelation,    of 


22  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

discovering  the  portrait  of  a  lady  in  her  father's 
room. 

Was  it  her  mother?  She  could  not  tell.  It 
was  the  portrait  of  a  young  lady,  which  is  not  a 
child's  ideal  of  a  mother.  It  was  hidden  away  in 
a  secret  drawer  of  which  she  had  discovered  the 
existence  only  by  a  chance  in  the  course  of  some 
unauthorised  investigations  among  Mr.  Manner- 
ing's  private  properties. 

He  had  lost  something  which  Dora  was  intent 
on  surprising  him  by  finding ;  and  this  was  what 
led  her  to  these  investigations.  It  was  in  a  second 
Italian  cabinet  which  was  in  his  bedroom,  an 
inferior  specimen  to  that  in  the  drawing-room, 
but  one  more  private,  about  which  her  curiosity 
had  never  been  awakened.  He  kept  handker- 
chiefs, neckties,  uninteresting  items  of  personal 
use  in  it,  which  Dora  was  somewhat  carelessly 
turning  over,  when  by  accident  the  secret  spring 
was  touched,  and  the  drawer  flew  open.  In  this 
there  was  a  miniature  case  which  presented  a  very 
strange  spectacle  when  Dora,  a  little  excited, 
opened  it.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  a 
blank  at  first,  until,  on  further  examination,  Dora 
found  that  the  miniature  had  been  turned  face 
downwards  in  its  case.  It  may  be  imagined  with 
what  eager  curiosity  she  continued  her  investiga- 
tions. 

The  picture,  as  has  been  said,  was  that  of  a 
young  lady — quite  a  young  lady,  not  much  older, 
Dora  thought,  than  herself.  Who  could  this  girl 
be  ?  Her  mother  }  But  that  girlish  face  could 
not   belong  to  any  girl's   mother.       It    was    not 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  23 

beautiful  to  Dora's  eyes  ;  but  yet  full  of  vivacity 
and  interest,  a  face  that  had  much  to  say  if  one 
only  knew  its  language  ;  with  dark,  bright  eyes. 
and  a  tremulous  smile  about  the  lips.  Who  was 
it ;  oh,  who  was  it }  Was  it  that  little  sister  of 
papa's  who  was  dead,  whose  name  had  been  Dora 

too  ?     Was  it 

Dora  did  not  know  what  to  think,  or  how  to 
explain  the  little  shock  which  was  given  her  by 
this  discovery.  She  shut  up  the  drawer  hastily, 
but  she  had  not  the  heart  to  turn  the  portrait 
again  as  it  had  been  turned,  face  downwards.  It 
seemed  too  unkind,  cruel  almost.  Why  should 
her  face  be  turned  downwards,  that  living,  smiling 
face?  "I  will  ask  papa,"  Dora  said  to  herself; 
but  she  could  not  tell  why  it  was,  any  more  than 
she  could  explain  her  other  sensations  on  the 
subject,  that  when  the  appropriate  moment  came 
to  do  so,  she  had  not  the  courage  to  ask  papa. 


CHAPTER   III. 

There  was  one  remarkable  thing  in  Dora  Man- 
nering's  life  which  I  have  omitted  to  mention, 
which  is,  that  she  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
periodically,  though  at  very  uncertain  intervals, 
out  of  that  vast  but  vague  universe  surrounding 
England,  which  we  call  generally  "abroad,"  a 
box.  No  one  knew  where  it  came  from,  or 
who  it  came  from  ;  at  least,  no  light  was  ever 
thrown  to  Dora  upon  that  mystery.  It  was 
despatched  now  from  one  place,  now  from  an- 
other ;  and  not  a  name,  or  a  card,  or  a  scrap  of 
paper  was  ever  found  to  identify  the  sender. 

This  box  contained  always  a  store  of  delights 
for  the  recipient,  who,  though  she  was  in  a  man- 
ner monarch  of  all  she  surveyed,  was  without 
many  of  the  more  familiar  pleasures  of  childhood. 
It  had  contained  toys  and  pretty  knick-knacks  of 
many  quaint  foreign  kinds  when  she  was  quite  a 
child ;  but  as  she  grew  older,  the  mind  ot  her 
unknown  friend  seemed  to  follow  her  growth  with 
the  strangest  certainty  of  what  would  please  these 
advancing  youthful  years. 

The  foundation  of  the  box,  if  that  word  may 
be  employed,  was  always  a  store  of  the  daintiest 
underclothing,  delicately  made,  which  followed 
Dora's  needs  and  growth,  growing  longer  as  she 
grew  taller ;  so  that  underneath  her  frocks,  which 

(24) 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  25 

were  not  always  lovely,  the  texture,  form,  and 
colour  being  chiefly  decided  by  the  dressmaker 
who  had  "  made "  for  her  as  long  as  she  could 
remember,  Dora  was  clothed  like  a  princess  ;  and 
thus  accustomed  from  her  childhood  to  the  most 
delicate  and  dainty  accessories — fine  linen,  fine 
wool,  silk  stockings,  handkerchiefs  good  enough 
for  any  fine  lady.  Her  father  had  not,  at  first, 
liked  to  see  these  fine  things  ;  he  had  pushed 
them  away  when  she  spread  them  out  to  show 
him  her  treasures,  and  turned  his  back  upon  her, 
bidding  her  carry  off  her  trumpery. 

It  was  so  seldom,  so  very  seldom,  that  Mr. 
Mannering  had  an  objection  to  anything  done  by 
Dora,  that  this  little  exhibition  of  temper  had  an 
extraordinary  effect ;  but  the  interval  between 
one  arrival  and  another  was  long  enough  to  sweep 
any  such  recollection  out  of  the  mind  of  a  child ; 
and  as  she  grew  older,  more  intelligent  to  note 
what  he  meant,  and,  above  all,  more  curious 
about  everything  that  happened,  he  had  changed 
his  tone.  But  he  had  a  look  which  Dora  classi- 
fied in  her  own  mind  as  "  the  face  father  puts  on 
when  my  box  comes  ". 

This  is  a  sort  of  thing  which  imprints  itself 
very  clearly  upon  the  mind  of  the  juvenile  specta- 
tor and  critic.  Dora  knew  it  as  well  as  she  knew 
the  clothes  her  father  wore,  or  the  unchanging 
habits  of  his  life,  though  she  did  not  for  a  long 
time  attempt  to  explain  to  herself  what  it  meant. 
It  was  a  look  of  intent  self-restraint,  of  a  stoical 
repression.  He  submitted  to  having  the  different 
contents  of  the  box  exhibited  to  him  without  a 


26  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

smile  on  his  face  or  the  least  manifestation  of 
sympathy — he  who  sympathised  with  every  senti- 
ment which  breathed  across  his  child's  facile 
spirit.  He  wound  himself  up  to  submit  to  the 
ordeal,  it  seemed,  with  the  blank  look  of  an  un- 
willing spectator,  who  has  not  a  word  of  admira- 
tion for  anything,  and,  indeed,  hates  the  sight  he 
cannot  refuse  to  see. 

"Who  can  send  them,  father?  oh,  who  can 
send  them  ?  Who  is  it  that  remembers  me  like 
this,  and  that  I'm  growing,  and  what  I  must  want, 
and  everything?  I  was  only  a  child  when  the 
last  one  came.  You  must  know—you  must  know, 
father  !  How  could  any  one  know  about  me  and 
not  know  you — or  care  for  me  ?  "  Dora  cried,  with 
a  little  moisture  springing  to  her  eyes. 

**  I  have  already  told  you  I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  it,"  said  Mr.  Mannering,  oh,  with 
such  a  shut-up  face !  closing  the  shutters  upon  his 
eyes  and  drawing  down  all  the  blinds,  as  Dora 
said. 

'*  Well,  but  suppose  you  don't  know,  you 
must  guess ;  you  must  imagine  who  it  could  be. 
No  one  could  know  me,  and  not  know  you.  I 
am  not  a  stranger  that  you  have  nothing  to  do 
with.  You  must  know  who  is  likely  to  take  so 
much  thought  about  your  daughter.  Why,  she 
knows  my  little  name !  There  is  '  Dora '  on  my 
handkerchiefs." 

He  turned  away  with  a  short  laugh.  "  You 
seem  to  have  found  out  a  great  deal  for  yourself. 
How  do  you  know  it  is  '  she '  ?  It  might  be  some 
old  friend  of  mine  who  knew  that  my  only  child 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  27 

was  Dora — and  perhaps  that  I   was   not  a  man 

to  think  of  a  girl's  wants." 

'*  It  may  be  an  old  friend  of  yours,  father.  It 
must  be,  for  who  would  know  about  me  but  a 
friend  of  yours  ?  But  how  could  it  be  a  man  ? 
It  couldn't  be  a  man  !  A  man  could  never  work 
'Dora' " 

"You  little  simpleton!  He  would  go  to  a 
shop  and  order  it  to  be  worked.  I  daresay  it  is 
Wallace,  who  is  out  in  South  America." 

Such  a  practical  suggestion  made  Dora  pause  ; 
but  it  was  not  at  all  an  agreeable  idea.     "  Mr. 

Wallace !  an  old,  selfish,  dried-up  "     Then 

widi  a  cry  of  triumph  she  added  :  '*  But  they  came 
long,  long  before  he  went  to  South  America.  No 
— I  know  one  thing — that  it  is  a  lady.  No  one 
but  a  lady  could  tell  what  a  girl  wants.  You 
don't,  father,  though  you  know  me  through  and 
through  ;  and  how  could  any  other  man  ?  But  I 
suppose  you  have  had  friends  ladies  as  well  as 
men.-* 

His  closed-up  lips  melted  a  little.  "  Not 
many,"  he  said  ;  then  they  shut  up  fast  again. 
"  It  may  be,"  he  said  reluctantly,  with  a  face  from 
which  all  feeling  was  shut  out,  which  looked  like 
wood,  "a  friend — of  your  mother's." 

**  Oh,  of  mamma's  ! "  The  girl's  countenance 
lit  up ;  she  threw  back  her  head  and  her  waving 
hair,  conveying  to  the  man  who  shrank  from  her 
look  the  impression  as  of  a  thing  with  wings.  He 
had  been  of  opinion  that  she  had  never  thought 
upon  this  subject,  never  considered  the  side  of 
life   thus   entirely  shut  out  from  her  experience, 


28  A  House  in  Bloontsbury. 

and  had  wondered  even  while  rejoicing  at  ber  in- 
sensibiHty.  But  when  he  saw  the  light  on  her 
face  he  shrank,  drawing  back  into  himself. 
"Oh,"  cried  Dora,  "a  friend  of  my  mother's! 
Oh,  father,  she  must  have  died  long,  long  ago, 
that  I  never  remember  her.  Oh,  tell  me,  who 
can  this  friend  be  ? " 

He  had  shut  himself  up  again  more  closely 
than  ever — not  only  were  there  shutters  at  all  the 
windows,  but  they  were  bolted  and  barred  with 
iron.  His  face  was  more  blank  than  any  piece  of 
wood.  "  I  never  knew  much  of  her  friends,"  he 
said. 

'*  Mother's  friends  !  "  the  girl  cried,  with  a  half 
shriek  of  reproachful  wonder.  And  then  she 
added  quickly  :  "  But  think,  father,  think  !  You 
will  remember  somebody  if  you  will  only  try." 

"Dora,"  he  said,  "you  don't  often  try  my 
patience,  and  you  had  better  not  begin  now.  I 
should  like  to  throw  all  that  trumpery  out  of  the 
window,  but    I  don't,   for  I   feel    I  have  no  right 

to   deprive   you  of Your  mother's  friends 

were  not  mine.  I  don't  feel  inclined  to  think 
as  you  bid  me.  The  less  one  thinks  the  better — 
on  some  subjects.  I  must  ask  you  to  question  me 
no  more." 

''  But,  father " 

"  I  have  said  that  I  will  be  questioned  no  more." 

"It  wasn't  a  question,"  said  the  girl,  almost 
sullenly ;  and  then  she  clasped  her  hands  about 
his  arm  with  a  sudden  impulse.  "  Father,  if  you 
don't  like  it,  I'll  put  them  all  away.  I'll  never 
think  of  them  nor  touch  them  again  " 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  29 

The  wooden  look  melted  away,  his  features 
quivered  for  a  moment.  He  stooped  and  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead.  "  No,"  he  said,  making  an 
effort  to  keep  his  lips  firmly  set  as  before.  "No-; 
I  have  no  right  to  do  that.  No  ;  I  don't  wish  it. 
Keep  them  and  wear  them,  and  take  pleasure  in 
them;  but  don't  speak  to  me  on  the  subject  again," 

This  conversation  took  place  on  the  occasion  of 
a  very  special  novelty  in  the  mysterious  periodical 
present  which  she  had  just  received,  about  v/hich 
it  was  impossible  to  keep  silence.  The  box — 
*'  my  box,"  as  Dora  had  got  to  call  it — contained, 
in  addition  to  everything  else,  a  dress,  which  was 
a  thing  that  had  never  been  sent  before. 

It  was  a  white  dress,  made  with  great  simpli- 
city, as  became  Dora's  age,  but  also  in  a  costly 
way,  a  semi-transparent  white,  the  sort  of  stuff 
which  could  be  drawn  through  a  ring,  as  happens 
in  fairy  tales,  and  was  certainly  not  to  be  bought 
in  ordinary  English  shops.  To. receive  anything 
so  unexpected,  so  exciting,  so  beautiful,  and  not 
to  speak  of  it,  to  exhibit  it  to  some  one,  was 
impossible.  Dora  had  not  been  able  to  restrain 
herself.  She  had  carried  it  in  her  arms  out  of 
her  room,  and  opened  it  out  upon  a  sofa  in  the 
sitting-room  for  her  father's  inspection.  There 
are  some  things  which  we  know  beforehand  will 
not  please,  and  yet  which  we  are  compelled  to 
do ;  and  this  was  the  consciousness  in  Dora's 
mind,  who,  besides  her  delight  in  the  gift,  and 
her  desire  to  be  able  to  find  out  something  about 
the  donor,  had  also,  it  must  be  allowed,  a  burning 
desire  to  make  discoveries  as  to  that  past  of  which 


30  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

she  knew  so  little,  which  had  seized  upon  her 
mind  from  the  moment  when  she  had  found  the 
portrait  turned  upon  its  face  in  the  secret  drawer 
of  her  father's  cabinet.  As  she  withdrew  now, 
again  carrying  in  her  arms  the  beautiful  dress, 
there  was  in  her  mind,  underneath  a  certain 
compunction  for  having  disturbed  her  father,  and 
sympathy  with  him  so  strong  that  she  would 
actually  have  been  capable  of  sacrificing  her 
newly-acquired  possessions,  a  satisfaction  half- 
mischievous,  half-affectionate,  in  the  discoveries 
which  she  had  made.  They  were  certainly  dis- 
coveries;  sorry  as  she  was  to  "upset  father," 
there  was  yet  a  consciousness  in  her  mind  that 
this  time  it  had  been  worth  the  while. 

The  reader  may  not  think  any  better  of  Dora 
for  this  confession ;  but  there  is  something  of  the 
elf  in  most  constitutions  at  fifteen,  and  she  was 
not  of  course  at  all  sensible  at  that  age  of  the 
pain  that  might  lie  in  souvenirs  so  ruthlessly 
stirred  up.  And  she  had  indeed  made  something 
by  them.  Never,  never  again,  she  promised 
herself,  would  she  worry  father  with  questions  ; 
but  so  far  as  the  present  occasion  went,  she  could 
scarcely  be  sorry,  for  had  not  she  learned  much — 
enough  to  give  her  imagination  much  employ- 
ment? She  carried  away  her  discoveries  with 
her,  as  she  carried  her  dress,  to  realise  them  in 
the  shelter  of  her  own  room.  They  seemed  to 
throw  a  vivid  light  upon  that  past  in  which  her 
own  life  was  so  much  involved.  She  threw  the 
dress  upon  her  bed  carelessly,  these  other  new 
thoughts  having  momentarily  taken  the  interest 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  31 

out  of  even  so  exciting  a  novelty  as  that ;  and 
arranged  in  shape  and  sequence  what  she  had 
found  out.  Well,  it  was  not  so  much,  after  all. 
What  seemed  most  clear  in  it  was  that  father  had 
not  been  quite  friends  with  mother,  or  at  least 
with  mother's  friends.  Perhaps  these  friends  had 
made  mischief  between  them — perhaps  she  had 
cared  for  them  more  than  for  her  husband ;  but 
surely  that  was  not  possible.  And  how  strange, 
how  strange  it  was  that  he  should  keep  up  such 
a  feeling  so  long ! 

As  Dora  did  not  remember  her  mother,  it  was 
evident  that  she  must  have  been  dead  many, 
many  years.  And  yet  her  father  still  kept  up  his 
dislike  to  her  friends!  It  threw  a  new  light  even 
upon  him,  whom  she  knew  better  than  any  one. 
Dora  felt  that  she  knew  her  father  thoroughly, 
every  thought  that  was  in  his  mind ;  and  yet  here 
it  would  seem  that  she  did  not  know  him  at  all. 
So  good  a  man,  who  was  never  hard  with  any- 
body, who  forgave  her,  Dora,  however  naughiy 
she  might  have  been,  as  soon  as  she  asked  par- 
don ;  who  forgave  old  Mr.  Warrender  for  contra- 
dicting him  about  that  orchid,  the  orchid  that  was 
called  Manneringii,  and  which  father  had  dis- 
covered, and  therefore  must  know  best ;  who 
forgave  Mrs.  Simcox  when  she  swept  the  dust 
from  the  corners  upon  the  herbarium  and  spoilt 
some  of  the  specimens ;  and  yet  who  in  all  these 
years  had  never  forgiven  the  unknown  persons, 
who  were  mother's  friends,  some  one  of  whom 
must  be  nice  indeed,  or  she  never  would  go  on 
remembering  Dora,  and  sending  her  such  presents. 


32  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

What  could  he  have  against  this  unknown  lady, 
— this  nice,  nice  woman?  And  how  was  it  possible 
that  he  should  have  kept  it  up  in  his  mind,  and 
never  forgiven  it,  or  forgotten  all  these  years  ? 
It  made  Dora  wonder,  and  feel,  though  she 
crushed  the  feeling  firmly,  that  perhaps  father  was 
not  so  perfect  as  she  had  thought. 

And  then  there  was  this  lady  to  think  of — her 
mother's  friend,  who  had  kept  on  all  this  time 
thinking  of  Dora.  She  would  not  have  been 
more  than  a  baby  when  this  benefactress  saw  her 
last,  since  Dora  did  not  remember  either  mother, 
or  mother's  friend  ;  yet  she  must  recollect  just  how- 
old  Dora  was,  must  have  guessed  just  about  how 
tall  she  was,  and  kept  count  how  she  had  grown 
from  one  time  to  another.  The  beautiful  dress 
was  just  almost  long  enough,  almost  fitted  her  in 
every  way.  It  gave  the  girl  a  keen  touch  of 
pleasure  to  think  that  she  was  just  a  little  taller 
and  slighter  than  her  unknown  friend  supposed 
her  to  be — but  so  near;  the  letting  down  of  a  hem, 
the  narrowing  of  a  seam,  and  it  would  be  a  perfect 
fit.  How  foolish  father  must  be  to  think  that  Mr. 
Wallace,  or  any  other  man,  would  have  thought 
of  that !  Her  mother's  friend — what  a  kind  friend, 
what  a  constant  friend,  though  father  did  not  like 
her! 

It  overawed  Dora  a  little  to  think  if  ever  this 
lady  came  home,  what  would  happen  ?  Of  course, 
she  would  wish  to  see  the  girl  whom  she  had 
remembered  so  long,  whom  she  had  befriended  so 
constandy ;  and  what  if  father  would  not  permit 
it?     It  would  be  unkind,  ungrateful,  wrong;  but 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  33 

what  if  father  objected,  if  it  made  him  unhappy? 
Dora  did  not  see  her  way  through  this  dreadful 
complication.  It  was  sufficiently  hard  upon  her, 
a  girl  at  so  early  an  age,  to  become  the  possessor 
of  a  beautiful  dress  like  this,  and  have  no  one  to 
show  it  to,  to  talk  it  over  with  ;  nobody  even  to 
tell  her  exactly  how  it  fitted,  to  judge  what  was 
necessary  for  its  perfection,  as  Dora  herself,  with 
no  experience,  and  not  even  a  good  glass  to  see 
herself  in,  could  scarcely  do.  To  hide  a  secret  of 
any  kind  in  one's  being  at  fifteen  is  a  difficult 
thing;  but  when  that  secret  is  a  frock,  a  dress! — a 
robe,  indeed,  she  felt  it  ought  to  be  called,  it  was 
so  exquisite,  so  poetical  in  its  fineness  and  white- 
ness. Dora  had  no  one  to  confide  in;  and  if  she 
had  possessed  a  thousand  confidants,  would  not 
have  said  a  word  to  them  which  would  seem  to 
involve  her  father  in  any  blame.  She  put  her 
pretty  dress  away,  however,  with  a  great  sense  of 
discomfiture  and  downfall.  Perhaps  he  would 
dislike  to  see  her  wear  it,  even  if  she  had  ever  any 
need  for  a  beautiful  dress  like  that.  But  she 
never  had  any  need.  She  never  went  anywhere, 
or  saw  anybody.  A  whole  host  of  little  grievances 
came  up  in  the  train  of  that  greater  one.  She 
wondered  if  she  were  to  spend  all  her  life  like 
this,  without  ever  tasting  those  delights  of  society 
which  she  had  read  of,  without  ever  knowing  any 
one  of  her  own  age,  without  ever  seeing  people 
dance,  or  hearing  them  sing.  As  for  performing 
in  these  ways  herself,  that  had  not  come  into  Dora's 
mind.  She  would  like,  she  thought,  to  look  on  and 
see  how  they  did  it,  for  once,  at  least,  in  her  life. 

3 


34  -^  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

When  she  had  come  to  this  point,  Dora,  who 
was  a  girl  full  of  natural  sense,  began  to  feel  in- 
stinctively that  she  was  not  in  a  good  way,  and 
that  it  would  be  better  to  do  something  active  to 
clear  away  the  cobwebs.  It  was  evening,  however, 
and  she  did  not  know  exactly  what  to  do.  To  go 
back  to  the  sitting-room  where  her  father  was 
reading,  and  to  sit  down  also  to  read  at  his  side, 
seemed  an  ordeal  too  much  for  her  after  the 
excitement  of  their  previous  talk  ;  but  it  was  what 
probably  she  would  have  been  compelled  to  do, 
had  she  not  heard  a  heavy  step  mounting  the 
stairs,  the  sound  of  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  her 
father's  voice  bidding  some  one  enter. 

She  satisfied  herself  presently  that  it  was  the 
voice  of  one  of  Mr.  Mannering's  chief  friends,  a 
colleague  from  the  Museum,  and  that  he  was  safe 
for  a  time  not  to  remark  her  absence  or  to  have 
urgent  need  for  her.  What  now  should  Dora  do  ? 
The  openings  of  amusement  were  small.  Mrs. 
Hesketh  had  been  exhausted  for  the  moment.  It 
must  be  said  that  Dora  was  free  of  the  whole 
house,  and  that  she  used  her  petites  entries  in  the 
most  liberal  and  democratic  fashion,  thinking  no 
scorn  of  going  downstairs  sometimes  to  the  funny 
little  room  next  to  the  kitchen,  which  Mrs. 
Simcox  called  the  breakfast-room,  and  used  as 
her  own  sanctum,  the  family  centre  where  her 
grandchildren  and  herself  found  refuge  out  of  the 
toils  of  the  kitchen.  The  kitchen  itself  remained 
in  the  possession  of  Jane ;  and  Jane,  like  her 
mistress,  occasionally  shared  the  patronage  of 
Miss  Dora.     To-night  perhaps  she  wanted  solace 


A  House  in  Blooms  bury.  35 

of  another  kind  from  any  which  could  be  given 
her  on  the  basement  story.  It  is  not  often  that 
a  young  person  in  search  of  entertainment  or 
sympathy  has  all  the  gradations  of  the  social 
system  to  choose  from.  The  first  floor  repre- 
sented the  aristocracy  in  the  establishment  at 
Bloomsbury.  It  was  occupied  by  a  Scotch  lady, 
a  certain  Miss  Bethune,  a  somewhat  harsh- 
featured  and  angular  person,  hiding  a  gentle  heart 
under  a  grim  exterior ;  but  a  little  intolerant  in 
her  moods,  and  not  always  sure  to  respond  to 
overtures  of  friendship ;  with  a  maid  not  much 
less  unlike  the  usual  denizens  of  Bloomsbury  than 
herself,  but  beaming  with  redness  and  good 
humour,  and  one  of  Dora's  chief  worshippers  in 
the  house.  When  the  girl  felt  that  her  needs 
required  the  sympathy  of  a  person  of  the  highest, 
i.e.,  her  own  class,  she  went  either  boldly  or  with 
strategy  to  the  drawing-room  floor.  She  had 
thus  the  power  of  drawing  upon  the  fellowship  of 
her  kind  in  whatever  way  the  temper  of  the  time 
adapted  it  best  for  her. 

Mrs.  Simcox  and  the  girls  downstairs,  and 
Mrs.  Hesketh  above,  would  have  been  lost  in 
raptures  over  Dora's  new  dress.  They  would 
have  stared,  they  would  perhaps  have  touched 
with  a  timid  finger,  they  would  have  opened  their 
eyes  and  their  mouths,  and  cried :  "  Oh ! "  or 
"  La ! "  or  "  Well,  I  never ! "  But  they  would  not 
have  understood.  One's  own  kind,  Dora  felt, 
was  necessary  for  that.  But  as  it  was  evening, 
and  Miss  Bethune  was  not  always  gracious,  she 
did  not  boldly  walk  up  to  her  door,  but  lingered 


36  A  House  in  Bloouisbiuy. 

about  on  the  stairs,  coming  and  going,  until,  as 
was  pretty  sure  to  occur,  Gilchrist,  the  maid,  with 
her  glowing  moon  face  and  her  sandy  locks,  came 
out  of  the  room.  Gilchrist  brightened  imme- 
diately at  the  sight  of  the  favourite  of  the  house. 

"Oh,  is  that  you.  Miss  Dora?  Come  in  and 
see  my  lady,  and  cheer  her  up.  She's  not  in  the 
best  of  spirits  to-night." 

"  Neither  am  I — in  the  best  of  spirits,"  said 
Dora. 

*'  You  ! "  cried  Gilchrist,  with  what  she  herself 
would  have  called  a  "  skreigh  "  of  laughter.  She 
added  sympathetically  :  "  You'll  maybe  have  been 
getting  a  scold  from  your  papaw  ". 

"  My  father  never  scolds,"  said  Dora,  with 
dignity. 

"  Bless  me !  but  that's  the  way  when  there's 
but  wan  child,"  said  Miss  Bethune's  maid  :  "not 
always,  though,"  she  added,  with  a  deep  sigh  that 
waved  aloft  her  own  cap-strings,  and  caught 
Dora's  hair  like  a  breeze.  The  next  moment  she 
opened  the  door  and  said,  putting  her  head  in  : 
"  Here's  Miss  Dora,  mem,  to  cheer  you  up  a  bit  : 
but  no'  in  the  best  of  spirits  hersel'  ". 

"Bless  me!"  repeated  Miss  Bethune  from 
within:  "and  what  is  wrong  with  her  spirits? 
Come  away,  Dora,  come  in."  Both  mistress  and 
maid  had,  as  all  the  house  was  aware,  curious 
modes  of  expressing  themselves,  which  were 
Scotch,  though  nobody  was  aware  in  Bloomsbury 
how  that  quality  affected  the  speech — in  Miss 
Bethune's  case  at  least.  The  lady  was  tall  and 
thin,  a  large  framework  of  a  woman  which  had 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  37 

never  filled  out.  She  sat  in  a  large  chair  near 
the  fire,  between  which  and  her,  however,  a 
screen  was  placed.  She  held  up  a  fan  before  her 
face  to  screen  off  the  lamp,  and  consequently  her 
countenance  was  in  full  shadow.  She  beckoned 
to  the  girl  with  her  hand,  and  pointed  to  a  seat 
beside  her.  "So  you  are  in  low  spirits,  Dora.-* 
Well,  I'm  not  very  bright  myself.  Come  and  let 
us  mingle  our  tears." 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me,  Miss  Bethune. 
You  think  I  have  no  right  to  feel  anything." 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  dear.  I  think  at  your 
age  there  are  many  things  that  a  girl  feels — too 
much  ;  and  though  they're  generally  nonsense, 
they're  just  as  disagreeable  as  if  they  were  the 
best  of  sense.     Papa  a  little  cross  ?  " 

"Why  should  you  all  think  anything  so  pre- 
posterous? My  father  is  never  cross,"  cried 
Dora,  with  tears  of  indignation  in  her  eyes. 

"  The  better  for  him,  my  dear,  much  the 
better  for  him,"  said  Miss  Bethune  ;  "but,  perhaps, 
rather  the  worse  for  you.  That's  not  my  case, 
for  I  am  just  full  of  irritability  now  and  then,  and 
ready  to  quarrel  with  the  tables  and  chairs.  Well, 
you  are  cross  yourself,  which  is  much  worse.  And 
yet  I  hear  you  had  one  of  your  grand  boxes  to- 
day, all  full  of  bonnie-dies.  What  a  lucky  little 
girl  you  are  to  get  presents  like  that ! " 

"  I  am  not  a  little  girl,  Miss  Bethune." 

"  No,  I'll  allow  you're  a  very  big  one  for  your 
age.  Come,  Dora,  tell  me  what  was  in  the  box 
this  time.     It  will  do  you  good." 

Dora  hesitated  a  little  to  preserve  her  dignity, 


38  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

and  then  she  said  almost  with  awe :  **  There  was 
a  dress  in  it ". 

"A  dress!"  cried  Miss  Bethune,  with  a  little 
shriek  of  surprise  ;  "  and  does  it  fit  you  ?  " 

*'  It's  just  a  very,  very  little  bit  too  short," 
said  Dora,  with  pride,  "and  just  a  very,  very 
little  bit  too  wide  at  the  waist." 

"  Run  and  bring  it,  and  let  me  see  it,"  cried 
the  lady.  "I've  no  doubt  in  the  world  it  fits  like 
a  glove.  Gilchrist,  come  in,  come  in,  and  see 
what  the  bairn's  got.  A  frock  that  fits  her  like 
a  glove." 

'*  Just  a  very,  very  little  too  short,  and  a  very, 
very  little  too  wide  in  the  waist,"  said  Dora,  re- 
peating her  formula.  She  had  flown  upstairs 
after  the  first  moment's  hesitation,  and  brought 
it  back  in  her  arms,  glad  in  spite  of  herself  to 
be  thus  delivered  from  silence  and  the  sense  of 
neglect. 

"  Eh,  mem,"  cried  Gilchrist,  "  but  it  must  be 
an  awfu',  awfu'  faithful  woman  that  has  minded 
how  a  lassie  like  that  grows  and  gets  big,  and 
just  how  big  she  gets,  a'  thae  years." 

"  There  ye  are  with  your  moral ! "  cried  the 
mistress ;  and  to  Dora's  infinite  surprise  tears 
were  on  her  cheeks.  "  It's  just  the  lassie  that 
makes  all  the  difference,"  said  Miss  Bethune. 
She  flung  the  pretty  dress  from  her,  and  then  she 
rose  up  suddenly  and  gave  Dora  a  hasty  kiss. 
"  Put  it  on  and  let  me  see  it,"  she  said;  "  I  will 
wager  you  anything  it  just  fits  like  a  glove." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  That  is  a  very  strange  business  of  these  Man- 
nerings,  Gilchrist,"  said  Miss  Bethune  to  her 
maid,  when  Dora,  excited  by  praise  and  admira- 
tion, and  forgetting  all  her  troubles,  had  retired 
to  her  own  habitation  upstairs,  escorted,  she  and 
her  dress,  by  Gilchrist,  who  could  not  find  it  in 
her  heart,  as  she  said,  to  let  a  young  thing  like 
that  spoil  her  bonnie  new  frock  by  not  putting  it 
properly  away.  Gilchrist  laid  the  pretty  dress 
lovingly  in  a  roomy  drawer,  smoothing  out  all  its 
creases  by  soft  pats  of  her  accustomed  hands,  and 
then  returned  to  her  mistress  to  talk  over  the 
little  incident  of  the  evening. 

Miss  Bethune's  spirits  were  improved  also  by 
that  little  exhibition.  What  a  thinq-  it  is  to  be 
able  to  draw  a  woman  softly  out  of  her  troubles 
by  the  sight  of  a  pretty  child  in  a  pretty  new 
dress  !  Contemptible  the  love  of  clothes,  the  love 
of  finery,  and  so  forth,  let  the  philosophers  say. 
To  me  there  is  something  touching  in  that  natural 
instinct  which  relieves  for  a  moment  now  and 
then  the  heaviest  pressure.  Dora's  new  frock 
had  nothing  to  do  with  any  gratification  of  Miss 
Bethune's  vanity ;  but  it  brought  a  little  dawning 
ray  of  momentary  light  into  her  room,  and  a  little 
distraction  from  the  train  of  thoughts  that  were 
not  over  bright.     No  man  could  feel   the  same 

(39) 


40  A  House  in  B/oomsbu7y. 

for  the  most  beautiful  youth  ever  introduced  in 
raiment  like  the  day.  Let  us  be  thankful  among 
all  our  disabilities  for  a  little  simple  pleasure,  now 
and  then,  that  is  common  to  women  only.  Boy 
or  girl,  it  scarcely  matters  which,  when  they  come 
in  dressed  in  their  best,  all  fresh  and  new,  the 
sight  pleases  the  oldest,  the  saddest  of  us — a 
little  unconsidered  angel-gift,  amid  the  dimness 
and  the  darkness  of  the  e very-day  world.  Miss 
Bethune  to  outward  aspect  was  a  little  grim,  an 
old  maid,  as  people  said,  apart  from  the  sym- 
pathies of  life.  But  the  dull  evening  and  the 
pressure  of  many  thoughts  had  been  made  bright 
to  her  by  Dora's  new  frock. 

"  What  business,  mem  ? "  asked  Gilchrist. 

"  If  ever  there  was  a  living  creature  slow  at  the 
uptake,  and  that  could  not  see  a  pikestaff  when  it 
is  set  before  your  eyes!"  cried  Miss  Bethune. 
"  What's  the  meaning  of  it  all,  you  stupid  woman  ? 
Who's  that  away  in  the  unknown  that  sends  all 
these  bonnie  things  to  that  motherless  bairn  i* — 
and  remembers  the  age  she  is,  and  when  she's 
grown  too  big  for  dolls,  and  when  she  wants  a 
frock  that  will  set  her  off,  that  she  could  dance  in 
and  sing  in,  and  make  her  little  curtesy  to  the 
world  ?  No,  she's  too  young  for  that ;  but  still 
the  time's  coming,  and  fancy  goes  always  a  little 
before." 

"  Eh,  mem,"  said  Gilchrist,  "  that  is  just  what 
I  have  askit  mysel' — that's  just  what  I  was  saying. 
It's  some  woman,  that's  the  wan  thing ;  but  what 
woman  could  be  so  thoughtful  as  that,  aye  minding 
just  what  was  wanted } "     She  made  a  gesture 


A  Hotise  in  B/oomsbuty.  41 

with  her  hands  as  if  in  utter  inability  to  divine,  but 
her  eyes  were  fixed  all  the  time  very  wistfully  on 
her  mistress's  face. 

"  You  need  not  look  at  me  like  that,"  the  lady 
said. 

"  I  was  looking  at  you,  mem,  not  in  any  par- 
ticklar  way." 

"If  you  think  you  can  make  a  fool  of  me  at 
the  present  period  of  our  history,  you're  far  mis- 
taken," said  Miss  Bethune.  "  I  know  what  you 
were  meaning.  You  were  comparing  her  with  me, 
not  knowing  either  the  one  or  the  other  of  us — 
though  you  have  been  my  woman,  and  more  near 
me  than  anybody  on  earth  these  five-and-twenty 
long  years." 

"  And  more,  mem,  and  more  !  "  cried  Gilchrist, 
with  a  flow  of  tears,  which  were  as  natural  to  her 
as  her  spirit.  "Eh,  I  was  but  a  young,  young  lass, 
and  you  a  bonnie " 

"  Hold  your  peace!"  said  Miss  Bethune,  with 
an  angry  raising  of  her  hand  ;  and  then  her  voice 
wavered  and  shook  a  little,  and  a  tremulous  laugh 
came  forth.  "  I  was  never  a  bonnie — anything, 
ye  auld  fool !  and  that  you  know  as  well  as  me," 

••  But,  mem " 

"  Hold  your  peace,  Gilchrist !  We  were 
never  anything  to  brag  of,  either  you  or  me. 
Look  in  your  glass,  woman,  if  you  don't  believe 
me.  A  couple  of  plain  women,  very  plain 
women,  mistress  and  maid." 

This  was  said  with  a  flash  of  hazel  eyes  which 
gave  a  half-humorous  contradiction  at  the  same 
moment  to  the  assertion.     Gilchrist  began  to  fold 


42  A  Hoiise  in  Bloomsbury. 

hems  upon  the  apron  with  which  she  had  just 
dried  her  tears. 

"  I  never  said,"  she  murmured,  with  a  down- 
cast head,  "a  word  about  mysel', — that's  no'  a 
woman's  part.  If  there's  nobody  that  speaks  up 
for  her  she  has  just  to  keep  silence,  if  she  was  the 
bonniest  woman  in  the  world." 

"  The  auld  fool !  because  there  was  once  a 
silly  lad  that  had  nobody  else  to  come  courting 
to  !  No,  Gilchrist,  my  woman,  you  were  never 
bonnie.  A  white  skin,  I  allow,  to  go  with  your 
red  hair,  and  a  kind  of  innocent  look  in  your  eyes, 
— nothing,  nothing  more !  We  were  both  plain 
women,  you  and  me,  not  adapted  to  please  the 
eyes  of  men." 

"They  might  have  waited  long  afore  we 
would  have  tried,  either  tke  wan  or  the  other  of 
us,"  cried  Gilchrist,  with  a  flash  of  self-assertion. 
"  No'  that  I  would  even  mysel'  to  you,  mem,"  she 
added  in  an  after  breath. 

"As  for  that,  it's  a  metaphysical  question," 
said  Mi5s  Bethune.  "  I  will  not  attempt  to  enter 
into  it.  But  try  or  no',  it  is  clear  we  did  not 
succeed.  And  what  it  is  that  succeeds  is  just 
more  than  I  can  tell.  It's  not  beauty,  it's  a  kind  of 
natural  attraction."  She  paused  a  moment  in  this 
deep  philosophical  inquiry,  and  then  said  quickly  : 
"All  this  does  not  help  us  to  find  out  what  is 
this  story  about  the  Mannerings.  Who  is  the 
woman  ?  Is  it  somebody  that  loves  the  man,  or 
somebody  that  loves  the  girl  }  " 

*'  If  you  would  take  my  opinion,  mem,  I  would 
fiay   that    the    man — if  ye   call    Mr.    Mannering, 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  43 

honest  gentleman,  the  man,  that  has  just  every 
air  of  being  a  well-born  person,  and  well-bred,  and 
not  a  common  person  at  all " 

"  You  haveral !  The  king  himself,  if  there 
was  a  king,  could  be  no  more  than  a  man." 

"  I  would  say,  mem,  that  it  was  not  for  him — 
oh,  no'  for  him,  except  maybe  in  opposition,  if  you 
could  fancy  that.  Supposing,"  said  Gilchrist, 
raising  her  arm  in  natural  eloquence,  "supposin' 
such  a  thing  as  that  there  should  be  a  bonnie  bairn 
like  Miss  Dora  between  two  folk  that  had  broken 
with  one  another — and  it  was  the  man,  not  the 
woman,  that  had  her.  I  could  just  fancy,"  said  the 
maid,  her  brown  eyes  lighting,  her  milky  yet 
freckled  complexion  flushing  over, — "  I  could  just 
fancy  that  woman  pouring  out  everything  at  the 
bairn's  feet — gold  and  silver  and  grand  presents, 
and  a*  the  pomps  of  this  world,  partly  out  of  an 
adoration  for  her  hersel',  partly  just  to  make  the 
man  set  his  teeth  at  her  that  was  away — maybe, 
in  the  desert — unknown ! " 

Gilchrist  stood  like  a  sibyl  making  this  picture 
flash  and  gleam  before  her  own  inward  vision  with 
a  heat  and  passion  that  seemed  quite  uncalled  for 
in  the  circumstances.  What  was  Hecuba  to  her, 
or  she  to  Hecuba,  that  she  should  be  so  inspired 
by  the  possibilities  of  a  mystery  with  which  she 
had  nothing  to  do?  Her  eloquence  brought  a 
corresponding  glow,  yet  cloud,  over  the  counte- 
nance of  her  mistress,  who  sat  and  listened  with 
her  head  leaning  on  her  hand,  and  for  some  time 
said  nothing.  She  broke  the  silence  at  last  with  a 
laugh  in  which  there  was  very  little  sound  of  mirth. 


44  -^  House  in  Bloonisbmy. 

"  You  are  a  limited  woman,"  she  said — **  a 
very  limited  woman.  You  can  think  of  no  state 
of  affairs  but  one,  and  that  so  uncommon  that 
perhaps  there  never  was  a  case  in  the  world  like 
it.  You  will  never  be  done,  I  know  that,  taking 
up  your  lesson  out  of  it — all  to  learn  one  that  has 
neither  need  to  learn  nor  wish  to  learn — a  thing 
that  is  impossible.  Mind  you  what  I  say,  and  be 
done  with  this  vain  endeavour.  Whatever  may 
be  the  meaning  of  this  Mannering  business,  it  has 
no  likeness  to  the  other.  And  I  am  not  a  person 
to  be  schooled  by  the  like  of  you,  or  to  be  taught 
in  parables  by  my  own  woman,  as  if  I  was  a 
person  of  no  understanding,  and  her  a  mistress  of 
every  knowledge." 

Miss  Bethune  rose  hurriedly  from  her  seat, 
and  made  a  turn  about  the  room  with  an  air  of 
high  excitement  and  almost  passion.  Then  she 
came  and  stood  before  the  fire,  leaning  on  the 
mantelpiece,  looking  down  upon  the  blaze  with  a 
face  that  seemed  to  be  coloured  by  the  reflection. 
Finally,  she  put  out  a  long  arm,  caught  Gilchrist 
by  the  shoulders,  who  stood  softly  crying,  as 
was  her  wont,  within  reach,  and  drew  her  close. 
"You've  been  with  me  through  it  all,"  she  said 
suddenly;  "there's  nobody  that  knows  me  but 
you.  Whatever  you  say,  it's  you  only  that  knows 
what  is  in  my  heart.  I  bear  you  no  ill-will  for 
any  word  you  say,  no'  for  any  word  you  say ; 
and  the  Lord  forgive  me  if  maybe  all  this  time  it 
is  you  that  has  been  right  and  me  that  has  been 
wrong ! "  Only  a  moment,  scarcely  so  much, 
Miss   Bethune   leant    her   head    upon    Gilchrist's 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  45 

shoulder,  then  she  suddenly  pushed  her  away. 
And  not  a  second  too  soon,  for  at  that  moment 
a  knock  came  to  the  door.  They  both  started 
a  Httle ;  and  Miss  Bethune,  with  the  speed  of 
thought,  returned  to  the  chair  shaded  by  a  screen 
from  the  lamplight  and  firelight  in  which  she  had 
been  sitting,  "not  in  good  spirits,"  at  the  time  of 
the  interruption  of  Dora.  "  Go  and  see  who  it 
is,"  she  said,  half  in  words,  half  by  the  action  of 
her  hand.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
instantaneous  than  this  rapid  change. 

When  Gilchrist,  scarcely  less  rapid  though  so 
much  heavier  than  her  mistress,  opened  the  door, 
there  stood  before  it  a  Httle  man  very  carefully 
dressed,  though  in  morning  costume,  in  a  solemn 
frock  coat,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  Though 
professional  costume  no  longer  exists  among  us, 
it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  and  recognise  in  a 
moment  that  nothing  but  a  medical  man,  a  doctor 
to  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  could  have  appeared  in 
just  that  perfect  neatness  of  dress,  so  well  brushed, 
so  exactly  buttoned,  so  gravely  clothed  in  garments 
which,  though  free  of  any  peculiarity  of  art  or 
colour,  such  as  that  which  distinguishes  the  garb 
of  a  clergyman,  were  yet  so  completely  and 
seriously  professional.  His  v/hiskers,  for  it  was 
in  the  days  when  these  ornaments  were  still  worn, 
his  hair,  brown,  with  a  slight  crisp  and  upturning, 
like  lining,  of  grey,  the  watch-chain  that  crossed 
his  waistcoat,  as  well  as  the  accurate  chronometer 
of  a  watch  to  which  so  many  eager  and  so  many 
languid  pulses  had  beat,  were  all  in  perfect  keep- 
ing ;  even  his  boots — but  we  must  not  pursue  too 


46  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

far  this  discussion  of  Dr.  Roland's  personal 
appearance.  His  boots  were  not  the  polished 
leather  of  the  evening ;  but  they  were  the  spotless 
boots  of  a  man  who  rarely  walked,  and  whose 
careful  step  from  his  carriage  to  a  patient's  door 
never  carried  in  any  soil  of  the  outside  to  the 
most  delicate  carpet.  Why,  being  one  of  the 
inhabitants  of  this  same  house  in  Bloomsbury,  he 
should  have  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand  when  he 
came  to  the  door  of  Miss  Bethune's  drawing-room 
from  his  own  sitting-room  downstairs,  is  a  mystery 
upon  which  I  can  throw  no  light. 

The  ideas  of  a  man  in  respect  to  his  hat  are 
indeed  unfathomable.  Whether  he  carries  it  as 
a  protection  or  a  shield  of  pretence,  whether  to 
convey  to  you  that  he  is  anxiously  expected  some- 
where else,  and  that  you  are  not  to  calculate  upon 
anything  but  a  short  appearance  upon  your  indi- 
vidual scene,  whether  to  make  it  apparent  by  its 
gloss  and  sheen  how  carefully  he  has  prepared  for 
this  interview,  whether  it  is  to  keep  undue  fami- 
liarity at  arm's  length,  or  provide  a  becoming 
occupation  for  those  hands  with  which  many 
persons,  while  in  repose,  do  not  know  what  to  do, 
it  is  impossible  to  tell.  Certain  it  is  that  a  large 
number  of  men  find  consolation  and  support  in 
the  possession  of  that  article  of  apparel ;  and 
though  they  may  freely  abuse  it  in  other  circum- 
stances, cling  to  it  on  social  occasions  as  to  an 
instrument  of  salvation.  Dr.  Roland  held  it  fast, 
and  bowed  over  it  with  a  little  formality,  as  he 
came  into  his  neighbour's  presence.  They  met 
on  the  stairs  or  in  the  hall  sometimes  three  or 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  47 

four  times  in  a  day,  but  they  were  not  the  less 
particular  in  going  through  all  the  forms  of 
civility  when  the  doctor  came  to  pay  a  call,  as  if 
they  had  not  seen  each  other  for  a  week  before. 
He  was  a  man  of  very  great  observation,  and  he 
did  not  miss  a  single  particular  of  the  scene. 
The  screen  drawn  round  the  lady,  defending  her 
not  only  from  the  fire  but  from  inspection,  and  a 
slight  glistening  upon  the  cheek  of  Gilchrist, 
which,  as  she  did  not  paint  or  use  any  cosmetic, 
had  but  one  explanation.  That  he  formed  a 
completely  wrong  conclusion  was  not  Dr.  Roland's 
fault.  He  did  so  sometimes  from  lack  of  material 
on  which  to  form  his  judgment,  but  not  often.  He 
said  to  himself,  "  There  has  been  a  row,"  which, 
as  the  reader  is  aware,  was  not  the  case ;  but  then 
he  set  himself  to  work  to  smooth  down  all  agitation 
with  a  kindness  and  skill  which  the  gentlest  reader, 
knowing  all  about  it,  could  not  have  surpassed. 

"  We  have  just  been  doing  a  very  wrong 
thing,  Gilchrist  and  me,"  said  Miss  Bethune ; 
"  a  thing  which  you  will  say,  doctor,  is  the  way 
of  ladies  and  their  maids ;  but  that  is  just  one  of 
your  generalisings,  and  not  true — except  now  and 
then.  We  have  been  wondering  what  is  the 
strange  story  of  our  bonnie  little  Dora  and  that 
quiet,  learned  father  of  hers  upstairs." 

•'  Very  natural,  I  should  say,"  said  the  doctor. 
"But  why  should  there  be  any  story  at  all?  I 
don't  wonder  at  the  discussion,  but  why  should 
there  be  any  cause  for  it  ?  A  quiet,  learned  man, 
as  you  say,  and  one  fair  daughter  and  no  more, 
whom  he  loves  passing  well." 


48  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

'*Ah,  doctor,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  "you  know 
a  great  deal  about  human  nature.  You  know 
better  than  that." 

The  doctor  put  down  his  hat,  and  drew  his 
chair  nearer  the  fire.  "  Should  you  like  to  hear 
the  story  of  poor  Mannering?"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   V. 

There  is  nothing  more  usual  than   to  say  that 
could  we  but  know  the  life  history  of  the  first  half- 
dozen    persons  we  meet   with   on  any   road,   we 
should  find  tragic  details  and  unexpected  lights 
and  shadows  far  beyond  the  reach  of  fiction,  which 
no  doubt  is  occasionally  true  :    though  probably 
the  first  half-dozen  would  be  found  to  gasp,  like 
the  knife-grinder  :  "  Story  ?    Lord  bless  you  !     I 
have  none  to  tell,  sir."     This,  to  be  sure,  would 
be  no  argument;  for  our  histories  are  not  frequently 
unknown   to,  or,  at  least,   unappreciated  by  our- 
selves, and  the  common  human  sense  is  against  any 
accumulation  of  wonders  in  a  small  space.     I  am 
almost  ashamed  to  say  that  the  two  people  who 
inhabited  one  above  the  other  two  separate  floors 
of  my  house  in  Bloomsbury,  had  a  certain  singu- 
larity and   unusualness  in  their  lives,  that  they 
were  not  as  other  men  or  women  are ;  or,  to  speak 
more  clearly,  that  being  as  other  men  and  women 
are,  the  circumstances  of  their  lives  created  round 
them  an  atmosphere  which  was  not  exactly  that  of 
common  day.  When  Dr.  Roland  recounted  to  Miss 
Bethunethe  story  of  Mr.  Mannering,  that  lady  shut 
her  lips  tight  in  the  partial  shadow  of  the  screen, 
to  restrain  the  almost  irrepressible  murmurs  of  a 
revelation  equally  out  of  the  common  which  be- 
longed to  herself.     That  is,  she  was  tempted  to 
(49)  4 


so  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

utter  aloud  what  she  said  in  her  soul,  "  Oh,  but 
that  is  like  me  ! "  "  Oh,  but  I  would  never  have 
done  that ! " — comparing  the  secret  in  her  own 
life,  which  nobody  in  this  place  suspected,  with 
the  secret  in  her  neighbour's,  which,  at  least  to 
some  few  persons,  was  known. 

Poor  Mr.  Mannering!  there  was  a  strange 
kind  of  superiority  and  secret  satisfaction  in  pity- 
ing his  fate,  in  learning  all  the  particulars  of  it,  in 
assuring  herself  that  Dora  was  quite  ignorant,  and 
nobody  in  the  house  had  the  least  suspicion,  while 
at  the  same  time  secure  in  the  consciousness  that 
she  herself  was  wrapt  in  impenetrable  darkness, 
and  that  not  even  this  gossip  of  a  doctor  could 
divine  her.  There  is  an  elation  in  knowing  that 
you  too  have  a  story,  that  your  own  experiences 
are  still  more  profound  than  those  of  the  others 
whom  you  are  called  upon  to  pity  and  wonder 
over,  that  did  they  but  know ! — which,  perhaps,  is 
not  like  the  more  ordinary  elation  of  conscious 
superiority,  but  yet  has  its  sweetness.  There  was 
a  certain  dignity  swelling  in  Miss  Bethune  s  figure 
as  she  rose  to  shake  hands  with  the  doctor,  as  if 
she  had  wrapped  a  tragic  mantle  round  her,  as  if 
she  dismissed  him  like  a  queen  on  the  ^d^<gQ.  of 
ground  too  sacred  to  be  trodden  by  any  vulgar 
feet.  He  was  conscious  of  it  vaguely,  though  not 
of  what  it  was.  He  gave  her  a  very  keen  glance 
in  the  shadow  of  that  screen  :  a  keener  observer 
than  Dr.  Roland  was  not  easily  to  be  met  with, — 
but  then  his  observations  were  generally  turned  in 
one  particular  way,  and  the  phenomena  which  he 
glimpsed  on  this  occasion  did  not  come  within  the 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  52 

special  field  of  his  inquiries.  He  perceived  them, 
but  he  could  not  classify  them,  in  the  scientific 
narrowness  of  his  gaze. 

Miss  Bethune  waited  until  the  well-knowr, 
sound  of  the  closing  of  Dr.  Roland's  door  down- 
stairs met  her  ear ;  and  then  she  rang  violently, 
eagerly  for  her  maid.  What  an  evening  this  was, 
among  all  the  quiet  evenings  on  which  nothing 
happened, — an  evening  full  of  incidents,  of  mys- 
teries, and  disclosures !  The  sound  of  the  bell 
was  such  that  the  person  summoned  came  hurry- 
ing from  her  room,  well  aware  that  there  must  be 
something  to  be  told,  and  already  breathless 
with  interest.  She  found  her  mistress  walking 
up  and  down  the  room,  the  screen  discarded,  the 
fan  thrown  down,  the  very  shade  on  the  lamp 
pushed  up,  so  that  it  had  the  tipsy  air  of  a  hat 
placed  on  one  side  of  the  head.  "  Oh,  Gilchrist !  " 
Miss  Bethune  cried. 

Dr.  Roland  went,  as  he  always  went,  briskly 
but  deliberately  downstairs.  If  he  had  ever  run 
up  and  down  at  any  period  of  his  life,  taking  two 
steps  at  a  time,  as  young  men  do,  he  did  it  no 
longer.  He  was  a  little  short-sighted,  and  wore 
a  "  pincenez,"  and  was  never  sure  that  between 
his  natural  eyes,  with  which  he  looked  straight 
down  at  his  feet,  and  his  artificial  ones,  which  had 
a  wider  circle,  he  might  not  miss  a  step,  which 
accounted  for  the  careful,  yet  rapid  character  of 
his  movements.  The  door  which  Miss  Bethune 
waited  to  hear  him  close  was  exactly  below  her 
own,  and  the  room  filled  in  Dr.  Roland's  life  the 
conjoint  positions  of  waiting-room,  dining-room, 


52  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

and  library.  His  consulting-room  was  formed  of 
the  other  half  looking  to  the  back,  and  shut  off 
from  this  by  folding-doors  and  closely-drawn 
curtains.  All  the  piles  of  Ilhtstratcd  Neivs, 
Graphic,  and  other  picture  papers,  along  with 
various  well-thumbed  pictorial  volumes,  the  natu- 
ral embellishments  of  the  waiting-room,  were 
carefully  cleared  away  ;  and  the  room,  with  Dr. 
Roland's  chair  drawn  near  a  cheery  blazing  fire, 
his  reading-lamp,  his  book,  and  his  evening  paper 
on  his  table,  looked  comfortable  enough.  It  was 
quite  an  ordinary  room  in  Bloomsbury,  and  he 
was  quite  an  ordinary  man.  Nothing  remarkable 
(the  reader  will  be  glad  to  hear)  had  ever  hap- 
pened to  him.  He  had  gone  through  the  usual 
studies,  he  had  knocked  about  the  world  for  a 
number  of  years,  he  had  seen  life  and  many 
incidents  in  other  people's  stories  both  at  home 
and  abroad.  But  nothing  particular  had  ever 
happened  to  himself.  He  had  lived,  but  if  he  had 
loved,  nobody  knew  anything  about  that.  He 
had  settled  in  Bloomsbury  some  four  or  five  years 
before,  and  he  had  grown  into  a  steady,  not  too 
overwhelming  practice.  His  specialty  was  the 
treatment  of  dyspepsia,  and  other  evils  of  a  seden- 
tary life ;  and  his  patients  were  chiefly  men,  the 
men  of  offices  and  museums,  among  whom  he 
had  a  great  reputation.  This  was  his  official 
character,  not  much  of  a  family  adviser,  but 
strong  to  rout  the  liver  fiend  and  the  demons  of 
indigestion  wherever  encountered.  But  in  his 
private  capacity  Dr.  Roland's  character  was  very 
remarkable  and  his  scientific  enthusiasm  great. 


A  House  in  Bioonisbury.  53 

He  was  a  sort  of  medical  detective,  working 
all  for  love,  and  nothing  for  reward,  without  fee, 
and  in  many  cases  without  even  the  high  pleasure 
of  carrying  out  his  views.  He  had  the  eye  of  a 
hawk  for  anything  wrong  in  the  complexion  or 
aspect  of  those  who  fell  under  his  observation. 
The  very  postman  at  the  door,  whom  Dr.  Roland 
had  met  two  or  three  times  as  he  went  out  for  his 
constitutional  in  the  morning,  had  been  divined 
and  cut  open,  as  it  were,  by  his  lancet  of  a  glance, 
and  saved  from  a  bad  illness  by  the  peremptory 
directions  given  to  him,  which  the  man  had  the 
sense  (and  the  prudence,  for  it  was  near  Christ- 
mas) to  obey.  In  that  case  the  gratuity  passed 
from  doctor  to  patient,  not  from  patient  to  doctor, 
but  was  not  perhaps  less  satisfactory  on  that  ac- 
count. Then  Dr.  Roland  would  seize  Jenny  or 
Molly  by  the  shoulders  when  they  timidly 
brought  a  message  or  a  letter  into  his  room,  look 
into  the  blue  of  their  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
order  a  dose  on  the  spot ;  a  practice  which  made 
these  innocent  victims  tremble  even  to  pass  his 
door. 

"  Oh,  granny,  I  can't,  I  can't  take  it  up  to  the 
doctor,"  they  would  say,  even  when  it  was  a  tele- 
gram that  had  come :  little  selfish  things,  not 
thinking  what  poor  sick  person  might  be  sending 
for  the  doctor  ;  nor  how  good  it  was  to  be  able  to 
get  a  dose  for  nothing  every  time  you  wanted  it. 

But  most  of  the  people  whom  he  met 
were  less  easily  manageable  than  the  postman 
and  the  landlady's  little  granddaughters.  Dr. 
Roland   regarded   every   one   he   saw   from  this 


54  -^  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

same  medical  point  of  view;  and  had  made  up  his 
mind  about  Miss  Bethune,  and  also  about  Mr. 
Mannering,  before  he  had  been  a  week  in  the 
house.  Unfortunately,  he  could  do  nothing  to 
impress  his  opinion  upon  them  ;  but  he  kept  his 
eyes  very  wide  open,  and  took  notes,  attending 
the  moment  when  perhaps  his  opportunity  might 
occur.  As  for  Dora,  he  had  nothing  but  con- 
tempt for  her  from  the  first  moment  he  had  seen 
her.  Hers  was  a  case  of  inveterate  good  health, 
and  wholly  without  interest.  That  girl,  he  de- 
clared to  himself  scornfully,  would  be  well  any- 
where. Bloomsbury  had  no  effect  upon  her. 
She  was  neither  anaemic  or  dyspeptic,  though  the 
little  things  downstairs  were  both.  But  her 
father  was  a  different  matter.  Half  a  dozen  play- 
ful demons  were  skirmishing  around  that  careful, 
temperate,  well-living  man;  and  Dr.  Roland  took 
the  greatest  interest  in  their  advances  and  with- 
drawals, expecting  the  day  when  one  or  other 
would  seize  the  patient  and  lay  him  low.  Miss 
Bethune,  too,  had  her  little  band  of  assailants,  who 
were  equally  interesting  to  Dr.  Roland,  but  not 
equally  clear,  since  he  was  as  yet  quite  in  the 
dark  as  to  the  moral  side  of  the  question  in  her 
case. 

He  knew  what  would  happen  to  these  two, 
and  calculated  their  chances  with  great  precision, 
taking  into  account  all  the  circumstances  that 
might  defer  or  accelerate  the  catastrophe.  These 
observations  interested  him  like  a  play.  It  was 
a  kind  of  second  sight  that  he  possessed,  but 
reaching   much   further  than   the   vision   of  any 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  55 

Highland  seer,  who  sees  the  winding-sheet  only 
when  it  is  very  near,  mounting  in  a  day  or  two 
from  the  knees  to  the  waist,  and  hence  to  the 
head.  But  Dr.  Roland  saw  its  shadow  long  before 
it  could  have  been  visible  to  any  person  gifted 
with  the  second  sight.  Sometimes  he  was  wrong 
— he  had  acknowledged  as  much  to  himself  in  one 
or  two  instances ;  but  it  was  very  seldom  that  this 
occurred.  Those  who  take  a  pessimistic  view 
either  of  the  body  or  soul  are  bound  to  be  right 
in  many,  if  not  in  most  cases,  we  are  obliged  to 
allow. 

But  it  was  not  with  the  design  of  hunting 
patients  that  Dr  Roland  made  these  investiga- 
tions ;  his  interest  in  the  persons  he  saw  around 
him  was  purely  scientific.  It  diverted  him  greatly, 
if  such  a  word  may  be  used,  to  see  how  they  met 
their  particular  dangers,  whether  they  instinctively 
avoided  or  rushed  to  encounter  them,  both  which 
methods  they  constantly  employed  in  their  uncon- 
sciousness He  liked  to  note  the  accidents  (so 
called)  that  came  in  to  stave  off  or  to  hurry  on 
the  approaching  trouble.  The  persons  to  whom 
these  occurred  had  often  no  knowledge  of  them  ; 
but  Dr.  Roland  noted  everything  and  forgot 
nothing.  He  had  a  wonderful  memory  as  well 
as  such  excessively  clear  sight ;  and  he  carried  on, 
as  circumstances  permitted,  a  sort  of  oversight  of 
the  case,  even  if  it  might  be  in  somebody  else's 
hands.  Sometimes  his  interest  in  these  outlying 
patients  who  were  not  his,  interfered  with  the 
concentration  of  his  attention  on  those  who  were 
— who  were  chiefly,  as  has  been  said,  dyspeptics 


56  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

and  the  like,  affording  no  exciting  variety  of 
symptoms  to  his  keen  intellectual  and  professional 
curiosity.  And  these  peculiarities  made  him  a 
very  serviceable  neighbour.  He  never  objected 
to  be  called  in  in  haste,  because  he  was  the  near- 
est doctor,  or  to  give  a  tiying  piece  of  advice 
to  any  one  who  might  be  attacked  by  sudden  pain 
or  uneasiness  ;  indeed,  he  might  be  said  to  like 
these  unintentional  interferences  with  other 
people's  work,  which  afforded  him  increased 
means  of  observation,  and  the  privilege  of  launch- 
ing a  new  prescription  at  a  patient's  head  by  way 
of  experiment,  or  confidential  counsel  at  the  pro- 
fessional brother  whom  he  was  thus  accidentally 
called  upon  to  aid. 

On  the  particular  evening  which  he  occupied 
by  telling  Miss  Bethune  the  story  of  the  Manner- 
ings, — not  without  an  object  in  so  doing,  for  he 
had  a  strong  desire  to  put  that  lady  herself  under 
his  microscope  and  find  out  how  certain  things 
affected  her, — he  had  scarcely  got  himself  com- 
fortably established  by  his  ovv-n  fireside,  put  on  a 
piece  of  wood  to  make  a  blaze,  felt  for  his  cigar- 
case  upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  taken  up  his 
paper,  when  a  knock  at  his  door  roused  him  in 
the  midst  of  his  preparations  for  comfort.  The 
doctor  lifted  his  head  quickly,  and  cocked  one 
fine  ear  like  a  dog,  and  with  something  of  the 
thrill  of  listening  with  which  a  dog  responds  to 
any  sound.  That  he  let  the  knock  be  repeated 
was  by  no  means  to  say  that  he  had  not  heard 
the  first  time.  A  knock  at  his  door  was  some- 
thing like  a  first  statement  of  symptoms  to  the 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  57 

doctor.  He  liked  to  understand  and  make 
certain  what  it  meant. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said  quickly,  after  the  second 
knock,  which  had  a  little  hurry  and  temerity  in  it 
after  the  tremulous  sound  of  the  first. 

The  door  opened ;  and  there  appeared  at  it, 
flushed  with  fright  and  alarm,  yet  pallid  under- 
neath the  flush,  the  young  and  comely  counten- 
ance of  Mrs.  Hesketh,  Dora's  friend  on  the  attic 
floor, 

"Oh!"  Dr.  Roland  said,  taking  in  this  un- 
expected appearance,  and  all  her  circumstances, 
physical  and  mental,  at  a  glance.  He  had  met 
her  also  more  than  once  at  the  door  or  on  the 
stairs.  He  asked  kindly  what  was  the  little  fool 
frightened  about,  as  he  rose  up  quickly  and  with 
unconscious  use  and  wont  placed  a  chair  in  the 
best  light,  where  he  should  be  able  to  read  the 
simple  little  alphabet  of  her  constitution  and 
thoughts. 

"Oh,  doctor,  sir!  I  hope  you  don't  mind  me 
coming  to  disturb  you,  though  I  know  as  it's  late 
and  past  hours." 

"  A  doctor  has  no  hours.     Come  in,"  he  said. 

Then  there  was  a  pause.  The  agitated  young 
face  disappeared,  leaving  Dr.  Roland  only  a  side 
view  of  her  shoulder  and  figure  in  profile,  and  a 
whispering  ensued.  "I  cannot — I  cannot!  I 
ain't  fit,"  in  a  hoarse  tone,  and  then  the  young 
woman's  eager  pleading.  "  Oh,  Alfred  dear,  for 
my  sake  I " 

"Come  in,  whoever  it  is,"  said  Dr.  Roland, 
with    authority.     "A    doctor  has    no  hours,   but 


58  A  House  in  Bloomshiry. 

®ther  people  in  the  house  have,  and  you  mustn't 
stay  outside." 

Then  there  was  a  little  dragging  on  the  part 
of  the  wife,  a  little  resistance  on  the  part  of  the 
husband ;  and  finally  Mrs.  Hesketh  appeared, 
more  flushed  than  ever,  grasping  the  sleeve  of 
a  rather  unwholesome-looking  young  man,  very 
pink  all  over  and  moist,  with  furtive  eyes,  and  hair 
standing  on  end.  He  had  a  fluttered  clandestine 
look,  as  if  afraid  to  be  seen,  as  he  came  into  the 
full  light  of  the  lamp,  and  looked  suspiciously 
around  him,  as  if  to  find  out  whether  anything 
dangerous  was  there. 

"  It  is  my  usband,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Hesketh. 
"  It's  Alfred.  He's  been  off  his  food  and  off  his 
sleep  for  I  don't  know  how  long,  and  I'm  not 
happy  about  him.  I  thought  perhaps  you  might 
give  him  a  something  that  would  put  him  all 
straight." 

"Off  his  food  and  off  his  sleep?  Perhaps  he 
hasn't  been  off  his  drink  also  ? "  said  the  doctor, 
giving  a  touch  to  the  shade  of  the  lamp. 

"  I  knew,"  said  the  young  man,  in  the  same 
partially  hoarse  voice,  "as  that  is  what  would  be 
said." 

"  And  a  gendeman  like  you  ought  to  know 
better,"  said  the  indignant  wife,  "  Drink  is  what 
he  never  touches,  if  it  isn't  a  'alf  pint  to  his 
supper,  and  that  only  to  please  me." 

"  Then  it's  something  else,  and  not  drink," 
said  the  doctor.  "  Sit  down,  and  let  me  have  a 
look  at  you."  He  took  into  his  cool  grasp  a 
somewhat  tremulous  damp  hand,  which  had  been 


A  House  in  Bloomsbiiry.  59 

hanging  down  by  the  patient's  side,  limp  yet 
agitated,  like  a  thing  he  had  no  use  for.  "  Tell 
me  something  about  him,"  said  Dr.  Roland.  "In 
a  shop  .■*  Baxter's  ? — yes,  I  know  the  place. 
What  you  call  shopman, — no,  assistant, — young 
gentleman  at  the  counter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Hesketh,  with  pride ; 
"book-keeper,  sir — sits  up  in  his  desk  in  the 
middle  of  the  costume  department,  and " 

"Ah,  I  see,"  said  the  doctor  quickly.  He 
gave  the  limp  wrist,  in  which  the  pulse  had 
suddenly  given  a  great  jump,  a  grip  with  his  cool 
hand.  "  Control  yourself,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Nerves  all  in  a  whirl,  system  breaking  down — 
can  you  take  a  holiday  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  young  man  in  a  sort  of 
bravado,  "  of  course  I  can  take  a  holiday !  and  an 
express  ticket  for  the  workhouse  after  it.  Hov/ 
are  we  to  live  if  I  go  taking  holidays  ?  We  can't 
afford  no  holidays,"  he  said  in  his  gruff  voice. 

"There  are  worse  places  than  the  workhouse," 
said  the  doctor,  with  meaning.  "  Take  this,  and 
to-morrow  I'll  give  you  a  note  to  send  to  your 
master.  The  first  thing  you  want  is  a  good 
night's  sleep." 

"  Oh,  that  is  the  truth,  however  you  know  it," 
cried  Mrs.  Hesketh.  "  He  hasn't  had  a  night's 
sleep,  nor  me  neither,  not  for  a  month  back." 

*'  I'll  see  that  he  has  one  to-night,"  said  Dr. 
Roland,  drawing  back  the  curtain  of  his  surgery 
and  opening  the  folding-doors. 

"  I  won't  take  no  opiates,  doctor,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  dumb  defiance  in  his  sleepy  eyes. 


6o  A  House  in  Blootnsbury, 

"You  won't  take  any  opiates?  And  why,  if 
I  may  ask?"  the  doctor  said,  selecting  a  bottle 
from  the  shelf. 

"Not  a  drop  of  your  nasty  sleepy  stuff,  that 
makes  fellows  dream  and  talk  nonsense  in  their 
sleep — oh,  not  for  me  !  " 

"  You  are  afraid,  then,  of  talking  nonsense  in 
your  sleep?  We  must  get  rid  of  the  nonsense, 
not  of  the  sleep,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  don't  say 
that  this  is  an  opiate,  but  you  have  got  to  swallow 
it,  my  fine  fellow,  whether  or  not." 

"  No,"  said  the  young  man,  setting  his  lips 
firmly  together. 

'^  Drink ! "  cried  Dr.  Roland,  fully  roused. 
"Come,  I'll  have  no  childish,  wry  faces.  Why, 
you're  a  man — with  a  wife — and  not  a  naughty 
boy  ! " 

"It's  not  my  doing  coming  here.  She  brought 
me,  and  I'll  see  her  far  enough " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  you  young  ass,  and  take 
your  physic !  She's  a  capital  woman,  and  has 
done  exactly  as  she  ought  to  have  done.  No 
nonsense,  I  tell  you !  Sleep  to-night,  and  then 
to-morrow  you'll  go  and  set  yourself  right  with 
the  shop." 

'*  Sir ! "  cried  the  young  man,  with  a  gasp. 
His  pulse  gave  a  jump  under  the  strong  cool  grip 
in  which  Dr.  Roland  had  again  taken  it,  and  he 
fixed  a  frightened  imploring  gaze  upon  the  doctor's 
face. 

"  Oh,  doctor ! "  cried  the  poor  wife,  "  there's 
nothing  to  set  right  with  the  shop.  They  think 
all  the  world  of  Alfred  there." 


A  House  in  Bloomsbziry.  6i 

"  They'll  think  all  the  more  of  him,"  said  Dr. 
Roland,  "  after  he  has  had  a  good  night's  sleep. 
There,  take  him  off  to  bed ;  and  at  ten  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning  I  expect  to  see  him  here." 

"  Oh,  doctor,  is  it  anything  bad  ?  Oh,  sir,  can't 
you  make  him  all  right?"  she  cried,  standing  with 
clasped  hands,  listening  to  the  hurried  yet  wavering 
step  with  which  her  husband  went  upstairs. 

"  I'll  tell  you  to-morrow  morning,"  Dr.  Roland 
said. 

When  the  door  was  closed  he  went  and  sat 
down  again  by  his  fire  ;  but  the  calm  of  his  mind, 
the  pleasure  of  his  cigar,  the  excitement  of  his 
newspaper,  had  gone.  Truth  to  tell,  the  excite- 
ment of  this  new  question  pleased  him  more  than 
all  these  things  together.  "Has  he  done  it,  or  is 
he  only  going  to  do  it  .•* "  he  asked  himself.  Could 
the  thing  be  set  right,  or  could  it  never  be  set 
right  ?  He  sat  there  for  perhaps  an  hour,  work- 
ing out  the  question  in  both  directions,  consider- 
ing the  case  in  every  light.  It  was  a  long  time 
since  he  had  met  with  anything  so  interesting. 
He  only  came  to  himself  when  he  became  con- 
scious that  the  fire  was  burning  very  low,  and  the 
chill  of  the  night  creeping  into  the  air.  Then 
Dr.  Roland  rose  again,  compounded  a  drink  for 
himself  of  a  different  quality  from  that  which  he 
had  given  to  his  patient,  and  selected  out  of  his 
bookcase  a  yellow  novel.  But  after  a  while  he 
pitched  the  book  from  him,  and  pushed  away  the 
glass,  and  resumed  his  meditations.  What  was 
grog,  and  what  was  Gaboriau,  in  comparison  with 
a  problem  like  this  "i 


CHAPTER  Vi. 

The  house  in  Bloomsbury  was,  however,  much 
more  deeply  troubled  and  excited  than  it  would 
have  been  by  anything  affecting  Alfred  Hesketh, 
when  it  was  known  next  morning  that  Mr.  Man- 
nering  had  been  taken  ill  in  the  night,  and  was 
now  unable  to  leave  his  bed.  The  doctor  had 
been  sent  for  early — alas !  it  was  not  Dr.  Roland 
— and  the  whole  household  was  disturbed.  Such 
a  thing  had  not  been  known  for  nearly  a  dozen 
years  past,  as  that  Mr.  Mannering  should  not  walk 
downstairs  exactly  at  a  quarter  before  ten,  and 
close  the  door  behind  him,  forming  a  sort  of  fourth 
chime  to  the  three-quarters  as  they  sounded  from 
the  church  clock.  The  house  was  put  out  for  the 
day  by  this  failure  in  the  regularity  of  its  life  and 
movement ;  all  the  more  that  it  was  very  soon 
known  that  this  prop  of  the  establishment  was 
very  ill,  that  "the  fever"  ran  very  high,  and  that 
even  his  life  was  in  danger.  Nobody  made  much 
remark  in  these  circumstances  upon  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  humble  little  people  on  the  upper 
foor,  who,  after  much  coming  and  going  between 
their  habitation  and  that  of  Dr.  Roland  down- 
stairs, made  a  hurried  departure,  providentially, 
Mrs.  Simcox  said — thus  leaving  a  little  available 
room  for  the  nurse  who  by  this  time  had  taken 
possession    of  the    Mannering  establishment,  re- 

(62) 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  63 

ducing  Dora  to  the  position  v/hich  she  had  never 
occupied,  of  a  child,  and  taking  the  management 
of  everything.  Two  of  these  persons,  indeed, 
had  been  ordered  in  by  the  doctor — a  nurse  for 
the  day,  and  a  nurse  for  the  night,  who  filled  the 
house  with  that  air  of  redundant  health  and  cheer- 
fulness which  seem  to  belong  to  nurses,  one  or 
other  of  them  being  always  met  on  the  stairs 
going  out  for  her  constitutional,  going  down  for 
her  meals,  taking  care  of  herself  in  some  method- 
ical way  or  other,  according  to  prescription,  that 
she  might  be  fit  for  her  work.  And  no  doubt  they 
were  very  fit  for  their  work,  and  amply  responded 
to  the  confidence  placed  in  them  :  which  was  only 
not  shared  by  Dora,  banished  by  them  out  of 
her  father's  room — and  Miss  Bethune,  a  woman 
full  of  prejudices,  and  Gilchrist,  whose  soft  heart 
could  not  resist  the  cheerful  looks  of  the  two  fresh 
young  women,  though  their  light-heartedness 
shocked  her  a  little,  and  the  wrongs  of  Dora  filled 
her  heart  with  sympathy. 

Alas !  Dora  was  not  yet  sixteen — there  was 
no  possibility,  however  carefully  you  counted  the 
months,  and  showed  her  birthday  to  be  approach- 
ing, to  get  over  that  fact.  And  v/hat  were  her 
love  and  anxious  desire  to  be  of  service,  and 
devotion  to  her  father,  in  comparisqn  with  these 
few  years  and  the  superior  training  of  the  women, 
who  knew  almost  as  much  as  the  doctor  himself.'' 
"Not  saying  much,  that!"  Dr.  Roland  grumbled 
under  his  breath,  as  he  joined  the  anxious  circle  of 
malcontents  in  Miss  Bethune's  apartment,  where 
Dora  came,  trying  proudly  to  restrain  her  tears, 


64  A   House  in  Bloovisbury. 

and  telling  how  she  had  been  shut  out  of  Mr. 
Mannering's  room — "  my  own  father's  room  ! "  the 
girl  cried  in  her  indignation,  two  big  drops,  like 
raindrops,  falling,  in  spite  of  her,  upon  her  dress. 

"  It's  better  for  you,  my  bonnie  dear, — oh,  it's 
better  for  you,"  Gilchrist  whispered,  standing 
behind  her,  and  drying  her  own  flowing  eyes  with 
her  apron. 

"Dora,  my  darling,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  moved 
to  a  warmth  of  spirit  quite  unusual  to  her,  "it  is 
quite  true  what  Gilchrist  says.  I  am  not  fond  of 
these  women  myself.  They  shall  never  nurse 
me.  If  I  cannot  have  a  hand  that  cares  for  me 
to  smooth  my  pillow,  it  shall  be  left  unsmoothed, 
and  none  of  these  good-looking  hussies  shall  smile 
over  me  when  I'm  dying — no,  no!  But  it  is 
different ;  you're  far  too  young  to  have  that  on 
your  head.  I  would  not  permit  it.  Gilchrist  and 
me  would  have  taken  it  arid  done  every  justice  to 
your  poor  papa,  I  make  no  doubt,  and  been  all  the 
better  for  the  work,  two  idle  women  as  we  are — 
but  not  you.  You  should  have  come  and  gone, 
and  sat  by  his  bedside  and  cheered  him  with  the 
sight  of  you ;  but  to  nurse  him  was  beyond  your 
power.  Ask  the  doctor,  and  he  will  tell  you  that 
as  well  as  me." 

*•  I  have  always  taken  care  of  my  father  be- 
fore," said  Dora.     "When  he  has  had  his  colds, 

and  when  he  had  rheumatism,  and  when that 

time,  Dr.  Roland,  you  know." 

"That  was  the  time,"  said  the  doctor,  "when 
you  ran  down  to  me  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
and  burst  into  my  room,  like  a  wise  liitle  girl 


A  House  in  Bloo^rishury,  65 

We  had  him  in  our  own  hands  then,  and  we  knevv 
what  to  do  with  him,  Dora.  But  here's  Vereker, 
he's  a  great  swell,  and  neither  you  nor  I  can 
interfere.' 

it  comforted  Dora  a  litde  to  have  Dr.  Roland 
placed  with  herself  among  the  outsiders  who  could 
not  interfere,  especially  when  Miss  Bethune 
added  ;  "That  is  just  the  grievance.  We  v/ould  all 
like  to  have  a  finger  in  the  pie.  Why  should  a 
man  be  taken  out  of  the  care  of  his  natural  friends 
and  given  into  the  charge  of  these  women,  that 
never  saw  him  in  their  lives  before,  nor  care 
whether  he  lives  or  dies  ? " 

"Oh,  they  care— for  their  own  reputation. 
There  is  nothing  to  be  said  against  the  women, 
they'll  do  their  duty/'  said  the  doctor.  "But 
there's  Vereker,  that  has  never  studied  his  con- 
stitution— that  sees  just  the  present  symptoms, 
and  no  more.  Take  the  child  out  for  a  walk. 
Miss  Bethune,  and  let's  have  her  fresh  and  fair 
for  him,  at  least,  if" — the  doctor  pulled  himself 
up  hastily,  and  coughed  to  swallow  the  last  alarm- 
ing syllable,—"  fresh  and  fair,"  he  added  hastily, 
"  ivhen  he  gets  better,  which  is  a  period  with 
which  no  nurses  can  interfere." 

A  colloquy,  which  was  silent  yet  full  of  eager 
interest  and  feelinp-,  sorancr  uo  between  two  pairs 
of  eyes  at  the  moment  that  z/"— most  alarming  of 
conjectures — was  uttered.  Miss  Bethune  ques- 
tioned ;  the  doctor  replied.  Then  he  said  in  an 
undertone  :  "  A  constitution  never  very  strong, — 
exhausting  work,  exhausting  emotions,  unnatural 
peace  in  the  latter  life" 


66  A  House  in  Bloomsbziry. 

Dora  was  being  led  av/ay  by  Gilchrist  to  get 
her  h'lt  for  the  proposed  walk  ;  and  Dr.  Roland 
ended  in  his  ordinary  voice. 

"  Do  you  call  that  unnatural  peace,  with  all 
the  right  circumstances  of  his  life  round  him,  and 
— and  full  possession  of  his  bonnie  girl,  that  has 
never  been  parted  from  him  ?  I  don't  call  that 
unnatural." 

'*  You  would  if  you  were  aware  of  the  other 
side  of  it  lopped  off — one  half  of  him,  as  it  were, 
paralysed." 

**  Doctor,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  with  a  curious 
smile,  "  I  ought  to  take  that  as  a  compliment  to 
my  sex,  as  the  fools  say — if  I  cared  a  button  for 
my  sex  or  any  such  nonsense !  But  there  is 
yourself,  now,  gets  on  very  well,  so  far  as  I  can 
see,  with  that  side,  as  you  call  it,  just  as  much 
lopped  off" 

"  How  do  vou  know?"  said  the  doctor.  "I 
may  be  letting  concealment,  like  a  worm  in  the 
bud,  feed  on  my  damask  cheek.  But  I  allow," 
he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  do  get  on  very  well  : 
and  so,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  it,  do  you, 
Miss  Bethune.  But  then,  you  see,  we  have 
never  known  anything  else." 

Something  leaped  up  in  Miss  Bethune's  eye — 
a  strange  light,  which  the  doctor  could  not  inter- 
pret, though  it  did  not  escape  his  observation. 
*'  To  be  sure,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head,  "  we 
have  never  known  anything  else.  And  that 
changes  the  case  altogether." 

"  That  changes  the  casew  I  say  nothing 
against  a  celibate  life.     I  have  always  preferred 


A  House  in  Bloornsbury.  67 

it—  it  suits  me  better.  I  never  cared,"  he  added, 
again  with  a  laugh,  "  to  have  too  much  baggage 
to  move  about." 

"  Do  not  be  uncivil,  doctor,  after  being  more 
civil  than  was  necessary." 

"  But  it's  altogether  a  different  case  with  poor 
Mannering.  It  is  not  even  as  if  his  wife  had 
betrayed  him — in  the  ordinary  way.  The  poor 
thing  meant  no  harm." 

"Oh,  do  not  speak  to  me!"  cried  Miss 
Bethune,  throwing  up  her  hands. 

"  I  know ;  it  is  well  known  you  ladies  are 
always  more  severe — but,  anyhow,  that  side  was 
wrenched  awav  in  a  moment,  and  then  there 
followed  long  years  of  unnatural  calm." 

*'  I  do  not  agree  with  you,  doctor,"  she  said, 
shaking  her  head.  "  The  wrench  was  defeeni- 
tive."  Miss  Betliune's  nationality  betrayed  itself 
in  a  great  breadth  of  vowels,  as  well  as  in  here 
and  there  a  word  or  two.  "It  was  a  cut  like 
death  :  and  you  do  not  call  calm  unnatural  that 
comes  after  death,  after  long  years  }  " 

"  It's  different — it's  different,"  the  doctor  said. 

"  Ay,  so  it  is,"  she  said,  answering  as  it  were 
her  own  question. 

And  there  v/as  a  pause.  When  two  persons 
of  middle  age  discuss  such  questions,  there  is  a 
world  lying  behind  each  full  of  experiences,  which 
they  recognise  instinctively,  however  completely 
unaware  they  may  be  of  each  other's  case. 

"  But  here  is  Dora  ready  for  her  walk,  and 
rns  doing  nothing  but  haver,"  cried  Miss  Bethune, 
disappearing  into  the  next  room. 


68  A  House  in  BlGomsbury. 

They  might  have  been  mother  and  daughter 
going  out  together  in  the  gentle  tranquillity  of  use 
and  wont, — so  common  a  thing  ! — and  yet  if  the 
two  had  been  mother  and  daughter,  what  a  revolu- 
tion in  how  many  lives  would  have  been  made ! — 
how  different  would  the  world  have  been  for  an 
entire  circle  of  human  souls  !  They  were,  in  fact, 
nothing  to  each  other — brought  together,  as  we 
say,  by  chance,  and  as  likely  to  be  whirled  apart 
again  by  those  giddy  combinations  and  dissolutions 
which  the  head  goes  round  only  to  think  of.  For 
the  present  they  walked  closely  together  side  by 
side,  and  talked  of  one  subject  which  engrossed  all 
their  thoughts. 

"  What  does  the  doctor  think  ?  Oh,  tell  me, 
please,  what  the  doctor  thinks ! " 

"  How  can  he  think  anything,  Dora,  my  dear? 
He  has  never  seen  your  father  since  he  was  taken 
ill." 

"Oh,  Miss  Bethune,  but  he  knew  him  so  well 
before.  And  I  don't  ask  you  what  he  knows.  He 
must  think  something.  He  must  have  an  opinion. 
He  always  has  an  opinion,  whatever  case  it  may 
be." 

"He  thinks,  my  dear,  that  the  fever  must  run 
its  course.  Now  another  v/eek's  begun,  we  must 
just  wait  for  the  next  critical  moment.  That  is 
all,  Dora,  my  darling,  that  is  all  that  any  man  can 
say. 

"  Oh,  that  it  would  only  come ! "  cried  Dora 
passionately.  "There  is  nothing  so  dreadful  as 
waiting — nothing  I  However  bad  a  thing  is,  if 
you  only  know  it,  not  hanging  always  in  suspense." 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  69 

"  Suspense  means  hope  ;  it  means  possibilit) 
and  life,  and  all  that  makes  life  sweet.  Be  patiem 
be  patient,  my  bonnie  dear." 

Dora  looked  up  into  her  friend's  face.  "  Wert 
you  ever  as  miserable  as  I  am  ?"  she  said.  Miss 
Bethune  was  thought  grim  by  her  acquaintances, 
and  there  was  a  hardness  in  her,  as  those  who 
knew  her  best  were  well  aware ;  but  at  this  question 
something  ineffable  came  into  her  face.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  her  lips  quivered  with  a  smile. 
"  My  litde  child  !  "  she  said. 

Dora  did  not  ask  any  more.  Her  soul  was 
silenced  in  spite  of  herself:  and  just  then  there 
arose  a  new  interest,  which  is  always  so  good  a  thing 
for  everybody,  especially  at  sixteen.  "There," 
she  cried,  in  spite  of  herself,  though  she  had 
thought  she  was  incapable  of  any  other  thought, 
"is  poor  Mrs.  Hesketh  hurrying  along  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street." 

They  had  got  into  a  side  street,  along  one  end 
of  which  was  a  little  row  of  trees. 

"  Oh,  run  and  speak  to  her,  Dora." 

Mrs.  Hesketh  seemed  to  feel  that  she  was 
pursued.  She  quickened  her  step  almost  into  a 
run,  but  she  was  breathless  and  agitated  and  laden 
with  a  bundle,  and  in  no  way  capable  of  outstrip- 
ping Dora.  She  paused  with  a  gasp,  when  the 
girl  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  me  call  you  ?  You  surely 
could  never,  never  mean  to  run  away  from  me  1 " 

"  Miss  Dora,  you  were  always  so  kind,  but  I 
didn't  know  who  it  might  be." 

"Oh,  Mrs.   Hesketh,  you  can't  know  how  ill 


JO  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

my  father  is,  or  you  would  have  wanted  to  ask  for 
him.  He  has  been  ill  a  month,  and  I  am  not 
allowed  to  nurse  him.  I  am  only  allowed  to  go 
in  and  peep  at  him  twice  a  day.  I  am  not 
allowed  to  speak  to  him,  or  to  do  anything  for 

him,  or  to  know " 

Dora    paused,    choked    by    the    quick-coming 
tears. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  miss.  I  thought  as  you  were 
happy  at  least :  but  there's  nothing,  nothing  but 
trouble  in  this  world."  cried  Mrs.  Hesketh,  break- 
ing into  a  fitful  kind  of  crying-  Her  face  was 
flushed  and  heated,  the  bundle  impeding  all 
her  movements.  She  looked  round  in  alarm  at 
every  step,  and  when  she  saw  Miss  Bethune's 
tall  figure  approaching,  uttered  a  faint  cry.  "  Oh, 
Miss  Dora,  I  can't  stay,  and  I  can't  do  you  any 
good  even  if  I  could  ;  I'm  wanted  so  bad  at  home." 

"  Where  are  you  going  with  that  big  bundle  ? 
You  are  not  fit  to  be  carrying  it  about  the 
streets,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  suddenly  standing 
like  a  lion  in  the  way. 

The  poor  little  woman  leant  against  a  tree, 
supporting  her  bundle.  "  Oh,  please,"  she  said, 
imploring ;  and  then,  with  some  attempt  at  self- 
^  defence,  "  I  am  going  nowhere  but  about  my  own 
business.  I  have  got  nothing  but  what  belongs 
to  me.     Let  me  go." 

"  You  must  not  go  any  further  than  this  spot," 
said  Miss  Bethune.  "  Dora,  go  to  the  end  of  the 
road  and  get  a  cab..  Whatever  you  would  have 
got  for  that  where  you  were  going,  I  will  give  it 
you,  and  you  can  keep  your  poor  bits  of  things. 


A  House  in  Bloomsbiiry.  71 

What  has  happened  to  you  ?  Quick,  tell  me, 
while  the  child's  away." 

The  poor  young  woman  let  her  bundle  fall 
at  her  feet.  "  My  husband's  ill,  and  he's  lost  his 
situation,"  she  said,  with  piteous  brevity,  and 
sobbed,  leaning  against  the  tree. 

"  And  therefore  you  thought  that  was  a  fine 
time  to  run  away  and  hide  yourself  among 
strangers,  out  of  the  reach  of  them  that  knew 
you  ?  There  was  the  doctor,  and  there  was  me. 
Did  you  think  we  would  let  harm  happen  to  you  ? 
You  poor  feckless  little  thing ! " 

"The  doctor!  It  was  the  doctor  that  lost 
Alfred  his  place,"  cried  the  young  woman  angrily, 
drying  her  eyes.  "Let  me  go — oh,  let  me  go! 
I  don't  want  no  charity,"  she  said. 

"  And  what  would  you  have  got  for  all  that  ?" 

"  Perhaps  ten  shillings — perhaps  only  six. 
Oh,  lady,  you  don't  know  us  except  just  to  see 
us  on  the  stairs.  I'm  in  great  trouble,  and  he's 
heartbroken,  and  waiting  for  me  at  'ome.  Leave 
me  alone  and  let  me  go." 

"  If  you  had  put  them  away  for  ten  shillings 
they  would  have  been  of  no  further  use  to  you. 
Now,  here's  ten  shillings,  and  you'll  take  these 
things  back ;  but  you'll  mind  that  they're  mine, 
though  I  give  you  the  use  of  them,  and  you'll 
promise  to  come  to  me,  or  to  send  for  me,  and  to 
take  no  other  way.  What  is  the  matter  with 
your  husband  ?  Let  him  come  to  the  doctor,  and 
you  to  me." 

"Oh,  never,  never,  to  that  doctor!"  Mrs. 
Hesketh  cried 


72  A  House  in  Blooms  bury, 

"  The  doctor's  a  good  man,  and  everybody's 
friend,  but  he  may  have  a  rough  tongue,  I  would 
not  say.  But  come  you  to  me.  We'll  get  him 
another  place,  and  all  will  go  well.  You  silly 
little  thing,  the  first  time  trouble  comes  in  your 
way,  to  tall  into  despair !  Oh,  this  is  you,  Dora, 
with  the  cab.  Put  in  the  bundle.  And  now, 
here's  the  money,  and  if  you  do  not  come  to  me, 
mind  you  will  have  broken  your  word." 

"  Oh,  ma'am !  Oh,  Miss  Dora  !  "  was  all  the 
poor  little  woman  could  say. 

"  Now,  Dora,"  said  Miss  Bethune  cheerfully, 
**  there's  something  for  you  to  do — Gilchrist  and 
you.  You'll  give  an  account  to  me  of  that  poor 
thing,  and  if  you  let  her  slip  through  your  fingers 
I'll  never  forgive  you.  There's  something  wrong. 
Perhaps  he  drinks,  or  perhaps  he  does  something 
worse — if  there's  anything  worse  :  but  whatever 
it  is,  it  is  your  responsibility.  I'm  an  idle,  idle 
person  ;  Pm  good  for  nothing.  But  you're  young, 
and  Gilchrist's  a  tower  of  strength,  and  you'll 
just  give  an  account  of  that  poor  bit  creature,  soul 
and  body,  to  me," 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Mr.  Mannering's  illness  ran  on  and  on.  Week 
after  week  the  anxious  watchers  waited  for  the 
crisis  which  did  not  come.  It  was  evident  now 
that  the  patient,  who  had  no  violence  in  his  ill- 
ness any  more  than  in  his  life,  was  yet  not  to  be 
spared  a  day  of  its  furthest  length.  But  it  was 
allowed  that  he  had  no  bad  symptoms,  and  that 
the  whole  matter  turned  on  the  question  whether 
his  strength  could  be  sustained.  Dr.  Roland, 
not  allowed  to  do  anything  else  for  his  friend, 
regulated  furtively  the  quality  and  quantity  of  the 
milk,  enough  to  sustain  a  large  nursery,  which 
was  sent  upstairs.  He  tested  it  in  every  scientific 
way,  and  went  himself  from  dairy  to  dairy  to  get 
what  was  best ;  and  Mrs.  Simcox  complained 
bitterly  that  he  Wcis  constantly  making  inroads 
into  "  my  kitchen  "  to  interfere  in  the  manufacture 
of  the  beef  tea.  He  even  did,  which  was  against 
every  rule  of  medical  etiquette,  stop  the  great  Dr. 
Vereker  on  the  stairs  and  almost  insist  upon  a 
medical  consultation,  and  to  give  his  own  opinion 
about  the  patient  to  this  great  authority,  who 
looked  him  over  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to 
the  sole  of  his  foot  with  undisguised  yet  be- 
wildered contempt.  Who  was  this  man  who 
discoursed  to  the  great  physician  about  the  ten- 
dencies and  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  sick  man, 

(73) 


74  -^  IIo2ise  in  Bloomsbury. 

whom  it  was  a  matter  of  something  like  conde- 
scension on  Dr.  Vereker's  part  to  attend  at  all, 
and  whom  this  little  person  evidently  believed 
himself  to  understand  better? 

"If  Mr.  Mannering's  friends  wish  me  to  meet 
you  in  consultation,  I  can  have,  of  course,  no  ob- 
jection to  satisfy  them,  or  even  to  leave  the  further 
conduct  of  the  case  in  your  hands,"  he  said  stiffly. 

"  Nothino^  of  the  kind — nothino^  of  the  kind  !  " 
cried  poor  Dr.  Roland.  "  It's  only  that  I've 
watched  the  man  for  years.  You  perhaps  don't 
know " 

"  I  think,"  said  Dr.  Vereker,  "  you  will  allow 
that  after  nearly  six  weeks'  attendance  I  ought, 
unless  I  am  an  ignoramus,  to  knov/  ail  there  is  to 
know." 

"  I  don't  deny  it  for  a  moment.  There  is  no 
practitioner  in  London  certainly  who  would  doubt 
Dr.  Vereker's  knowledge.  I  mean  his  past — 
what  he  has  had  to  bear — the  things  that  have 
led  up " 

"Moral  causes?"  said  the  great  physician 
blandly,  raising  his  eyebrows.  "  My  dear  sir, 
depend  upon  it,  a  bad  drain  is  more  to  be  reck- 
oned with  than  all  the  trap-cdies  of  the  world." 

*'  I  shall  not  depend  on  anything  of  the.  kind!  " 
cried  Dr.  Roland,  almost  dancing  with  impatience. 

"  Then  you  will  permit  me  to  say  good-morn- 
ing, for  my  time  is  precious,"  answered  his  distin- 
guished brotlier — "unless,"  he  added  sarcastically, 
pausing  to  look  round  upon  the  poor  doctor's 
sitting-room,  then  arrayed  in  its  morning  guise 
as  waitine-room,  with  all  the  old    Grapkirs.   and 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  75 

picture  books  laid  out  upon  the  table  —  "  Mr. 
Mannering's  friends  are  dissatisfied  and  wish  to 
put  the  case  in  your  hands  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  Vv^ho  Mr.  Mannering's  friends 
are?"  cried  Dr.  Roland.  "Little  Dora,  his  only 
child!  I  know  no  others.  Just  about  as  little 
influential  as  are  those  moral  causes  you  scorn, 
but  I  don't." 

"Indeed!"  said  Dr.  Vereker,  with  more  con- 
sideration of  this  last  statement.  Little  Dora  was 
not  much  oi  a  person  to  look  Ic  for  the  rapidly 
accumulating  fees  of  a  celebrated  doctor  during  a 
long  illness.  But  though  he  was  a  prudent  man, 
he  was  not  mercenary  ;  perhaps  he  would  have 
hesitated  about  taking  up  the  case  had  he  known 
at  first,  but  he  was  not  the  man  to  retire  now  out 
of  any  fear  of  being  paid.  "  Mr.  Mannering  is  a 
person  of  distinction,"  he  said,  in  a  self-reassuring 
tone;  "he  has  been  my  patient  at  long  intervals 
for  many  years.  I  don't  think  we  require  to  go 
into  the  question  further  at  this  moment."  He 
withdrew  with  great  dignity  to  the  carriage  that 
awaited  him,  crossing  one  or  two  of  Dr.  Roland's 
patients,  whose  appearance  somewhat  changed  his 
idea  of  the  little  practitioner  who  had  thus  ven- 
tured to  assail  him  ;  while,  on  the  other  handj 
Roland  for  his  part  was  mollified  by  the  other's 
magnanimous  reception  of  a  statement  which 
seemed  to  make  his  fees  uncertain.  Dr.  Vereker 
was  not  in  the  least  a  mercenary  man,  he  would 
never  have  overwhelmed  an  orphan  girl  with  a 
great  bill :  at  the  sam.e  time,  it  did  float  across  his 
mind  that  if  the  crisis  were  once  over  which  pro- 


jd  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

fesslonal  spirit  and  honour  compelled  him  to  con- 
duct to  a  good  end  if  possible,  a  little  carelessness 
about  his  visits  after  could  have  no  bad  result, 
considering  the  constant  vicinity  of  that  very  keen- 
eyed  practitioner  downstairs. 

A  great  doctor  and  tv/o  nurses,  unlimited 
supplies  of  fresh  milk,  strong  soup,  and  every 
appliance  that  could  be  thought  of  to  alleviate  and 
console  the  patient,  by  these  professional  persons 
of  the  highest  class,  accustomed  to  spare  no  ex- 
pense, are,  however,  things  that  do  not  agree 
with  limited  means  ;  and  Dora,  the  only  authority 
on  the  subject,  knew  nothing  about  her  father's 
money,  or  how  to  get  command  of  it.  Mrs. 
Simcox's  bills  were  very  large  in  the  present 
position  of  affairs,  the  rooms  that  had  been  occu- 
pied by  the  Heskeths  being  now  appropriated  to 
the  nurses,  for  whom  the  landlady  furnished  a 
table  more  plentiful  than  that  to  which  Mr.  Man- 
nering  and  his  daughter  had  been  accustomed. 
And  when  the  crisis  at  last  arrived,  in  the  middle 
of  a  tardy  and  backward  June,  the  affairs  of  the 
little  household,  even  had  there  been  any  com- 
petent person  to  understand  them,  were  in  a  very 
unsatisfactory'  state  indeed — a  state  over  which 
Dr.  Roland  and  Miss  Bethune  consulted  in  the 
evenings  with  many  troubled  looks,  and  shakings 
of  the  head.  She  had  taken  all  the  necessary 
outgoings  in  hand,  for  the  moment  as  she  said ; 
and  Miss  Bethune  was  known  to  be  well  off.  But 
the  prospect  was  rather  serious,  and  neither  of 
them  knew  how  to  interfere  in  the  sick  man's 
money  matters,  or  to  claim  what  might  be  owinnr 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  77 

to  him,  though,  indeed,  there  was  probably 
nothing  owing  to  him  until  quarter  day :  and 
there  were  a  number  of  letters  lying  unopened 
which,  to  experienced  eyes,  looked  painfully  like 
bills,  as  if  quarter  day  would  not  have  enough  to 
do  to  provide  for  its  own  things  without  respond- 
ing- to  this  unexoected  strain.  Dora  knew  no- 
thing  about  these  matters.  She  recognised  the 
letters  with  the  frankest  acquaintance.  They 
were  from  old  book  shops,  from  scientific  work- 
men who  mounted  and  prepared  specimens,  from 
dealers  in  microscopes  and  other  delicate  instru- 
ments. *'  Father  says  these  are  our  dressmakers, 
and  carriages,  and  parties,"  said  Dora,  half,  or 
indeed  wholly,  proud  of  such  a  distinction  above 
her  fellows. 

Miss  Bethune  shook  her  head  and  said,  "Such 
extravagance!"  in  Dr.  Roland's  ear.  He  was 
more  tolerant  "  They  are  all  the  pleasures  the 
poor  man  has,"  he  said.  But  they  did  not  make 
the  problem  more  easy  as  to  how  the  present 
expenses  were  to  be  met  v/hen  the  quarter's  pay 
came  in,  even  if  it  could  be  made  available  by 
Dora's  only  friends,  who  were  "  no  relations,"  and 
had  no  right  to  act  for  her.  Miss  Bethune  went 
through  a  great  many  abstruse  calculations  in  the 
mornings  which  she  spent  alone.  She  was  well 
off, — but  that  is  a  phrase  which  means  little  or 
much,  according  to  circumstances  ;  and  she  had  a 
great  many  pensioners,  and  already  carried  a  little 
world  on  her  shoulders,  to  which  she  had  lately 
added  the  unfortunate  little  Mrs.  Hesketh,  and 
the  husband,  who  found  it  so  difficult  to  get  another 


"/S  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

place.  Many  cares  of  a  similar  kind  were  on  this 
lady's  head.  She  never  gave  a  single  subscription 
to  any  of  the  societies  :  collectors  for  charities  called 
on  her  in  vain  ;  but  to  see  the  little  jottings  of 
her  expenses  would  have  been  a  thing  not  with- 
out edification  for  those  who  could  understand  the^ 
cipher,  or,  rather,  the  combination  of  undecipher-' 
able  initials,  in  which  they  were  set  down.  She 
did  not  put  M.  for  Mannering  in  her  accounts  ; 
but  there  were  a  great  many  items  under  the 
initial  W.,  which  no  one  but  herself  could  ever 
have  identified,  which  made  it  quite  sure  that  no 
stranger  going  over  these  accounts  could  make 
out  who  Miss  Bethune's  friends  were.  She  shook 
her  head  over  that  W.  If  Dora  were  left  alone, 
what  relics  would  there  be  for  her  out  of  the 
future  quarter's  pay,  so  dreadfully  forestalled,  even 
if  the  pay  did  not  come  to  a  sudden  stop  at  once  .-* 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  if  the  poor  man  got 
better,  and  had  to  face  a  long  convalescence  with 
that  distracting  prospect  before  him,  no  neighbour 
any  longer  daring  to  pay  those  expenses  which 
would  be  quite  as  necessary  for  him  in  his  weak 
state  as  they  were  now  ?  Miss  Bethune  could  do 
nothing  but  shake  her  head,  and  feel  her  heart 
contract  with  that  pang  of  painful  pity  in  which 
there  is  no  comfort  at  all.  And  in  the  meantime 
everything  went  on  as  if  poor  Mannering  were^ 
a  millionaire,  everything  was  ordered  for  him 
with  a  free  hand  which  a  prince  could  have  had; 
and  Mrs.  Simcox  excelled  herself  in  making  the 
nurses,  poor  things,  comfortable.  What  could 
any  one  do  to  limit  this  full  flowing  tide   of  liber- 


A  House  in  Bloomshury.  79 

ality  ?  Of  course,  he  must  have  everything  that 
could  possibly  be  wanted  for  him  ;  if  he  did  not 
use  it,  at  least  it  must  be  there  in  case  he  might 
use  it.  What  could  people  who  were  "no  rela- 
tions "  do  ?  What  could  Dora  do,  who  was  only  a 
child  ?  And  indeed,  for  the  matter  of  that,  what 
could  any  one,  even  in  the  fullest  authority,  have 
done  to  hinder  the  sick  man  from  having  any- 
thing which  by  the  remotest  possibility  might  be  of 
use  to  him  ?  Thus  affairs  went  on  with  a  dreadful 
velocity,  and  accumulation  of  wrath  against  the  day 
of  wrath. 

That  was  a  dreadful  day,  the  end  of  the  sixth 
week,  the  moment  when  the  crisis  must  come. 
It  was  in  the  June  evening,  still  daylight,  but 
getting  late,  when  the  doctor  arrived.  Mr.  Man- 
nering  had  been  very  ill  all  day,  sleeping,  or  in 
a  state  of  stupor  nearly  all  the  time,  moving  his 
head  uneasily  on  his  pillow,  but  never  rousing 
to  any  consciousness  of  what  was  going  on  about 
him.  The  nurses,  always  cheerful,  did  not,  how- 
ever, conceal  their  apprehensions.  He  had  taken 
his  beef  tea,  he  had  taken  the  milk  which  they 
poured  down  his  throat :  but  his  strength  was 
gone,  and  he  lay  with  no  longer  any  power  to 
struo-orle,  like  a  forsaken  boat  on  the  sea  margin, 
to  be  drifted  off  or  on  the  beach  according  to  the 
pleasure  ot  wind  and  tide. 

Miss  Bethune  sat  in  her  room  holding  Dora's 
hand,  who,  however,  did  not  realise  that  this  was 
more  important  than  any  of  the  other  days  on  which 
they  had  hoped  that  "the  turn"  might  come,  and 
a  little  impatient  of  the  seriousness  of  the  elder 


So  A  House  in  Bloomsbtiry, 

woman,  who  kept  on  saying  tender  words  to  her, 
caressing  her  hand, — so  unnecessarily  emotional, 
Dora  thought,  seeing  that  at  all  events  it  v/as  not 
her  father  who  was  ill,  and  she  had  no  reason  to 
be  so  unhappy  about  it.  This  state  of  excitement 
was  brought  to  a  climax  by  the  sound  of  the 
doctor's  steps  going  upstairs,  followed  close  by  the 
lighter  step  of  Dr.  Roland,  whom  no  etiquette 
could  now  restrain,  v/ho  followed  into  the  very 
room,  and  if  he  did  not  give  an  opinion  in  words, 
gave  it  with  his  eyes,  and  saw,  even  more  quickly 
than  the  great  Dr.  Vereker,  tver)  thing  that  was 
to  be  seen.  It  was  he  v/ho  came  dov/n  a  few 
minutes  later,  while  they  were  both  listening  for 
the  more  solemn  movements  of  the  greater 
authority,  descending  with  a  rush  like  that  of  a 
bird,  scarcely  touching  the  steps,  and  standing  in 
the  last  sunset  light  which  came  from  the  long- 
staircase  window  behind,  like  something  glorified 
and  half  angelic,  as  if  his  house  coat,  glazed  at  the 
shoulders  and  elbows,  had  been  some  sort  of 
shining  mail. 

Tears  were  in  Dr.  Roland's  eyes ;  he  waved 
his  hand  over  his  head  and  broke  forth  into  a 
broken  hurrah.  Miss  Bethune  sprang  up  to  meet 
him,  holding  out  her  hands.  And  in  the  sight  of 
stern  youth  utterly  astonished  by  this  exhibition, 
these  two  elderly  people  as  good  as  nished  into 
each  other's  arms. 

Dora  was  so  astounded,  so  disapproving,  so 
little  aware  that  this  was  her  last  chance  for  her 
father's  life,  that  she  almost  forgot  her  father  in 
the  consternation,  shame,  and  horror  with  which 


A  J-lohse  li,   Blcomsbttry.  83 

she  looked  on.  What  did  they  mean  ?  It  could 
not  have  anything  to  do  with  her  father,  of  whom 
they  were  "no  relations".  Hov/  dared  they  to 
bring  in  their  own  silly  affairs  when  she  was  in 
such  trouble.-*  And  then  Miss  Bethune  caught 
herself,  Dora,  in  her  arms. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  cried  the  girl.  "  Oh, 
let  me  alone !  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  father 
and  Dr.  Vereker,  who  is  upstairs." 

"  It  is  all  right — it  is  all  right,"  said  Dr. 
Roland.  "  Vereker  will  take  half  an  hour  more 
to  make  up  his  mind.  But  I  can  tell  you  at  once; 
the  fevers  gone,  and,  please  God,  he'll  pull 
through." 

"  Is  it  only  you  that  says  so,  Dr.  Roland  '^.  "  cried 
Dora,  hard  as  the  nether  millstone,  and  careless, 
indeed  unconscious,  what  wound  she  might  give. 

"You  little  ungrateful  thing!"  cried  Miss 
Bethune ;  but  a  shadov/  came  over  her  eyes  also. 
And  the  poor  practitioner  from  the  ground  floor 
felt  that  "only  you"  knock  him  down  like  a  stone. 
He  gave  a  laugh,  and  made  no  further  reply,  but 
v/alked  over  to  the  window,  where  he  stood 
between  the  curtains,  looking  out  upon  the 
summer  evening,  the  children  playing  on  the 
pavement,  all  the  noises  and  humours  of  the  street. 
No,  he  had  not  made  a  name  for  himself,  he  had 
not  secured  the  position  of  a  man  who  has  life 
and  death  in  his  nod.  It  was  hard  upon  Dr. 
Roland,  who  felt  that  he  knew  far  more  about 
Mr.  Mannering  than  half  a  hundred  great  phy- 
sicians rolled  into  one,  coming  in  with  his  solemn 
gteo  at  the  open  door. 


82  A  House  in  B  looms  bury. 

*'  Yes,  I  think  he  will  do,"  said  Dr.  Vereker. 
"  Miss  Maniiering,  I  cannot  sufficiently  recom- 
mend you  to  leave  everything  in  the  hands  of 
these  two  admirable  women.  It  will  be  anxious 
work  for  some  time  yet ;  his  strength  is  reduced 
to  the  very  lowest  ebb,  but  yet,  I  hope,  all  will 
conie  right.  The  same  strenuous  skilful  nursing 
and  constant  judicious  nourishment  and  rest. 
This  young  lady  is  very  young  to  have  such  an 
anxiety.  Is  there  really  no  one — no  relation,  no 
uncle — nor  anything  of  that  kind  }  " 

"  We  have  no  relations,"  said  Dora,  growing 
very  red.  There  seemed  a  sort  of  guilt  in  the 
avowal,  she  could  not  tell  why. 

*'  But  fast  friends,"  said  Miss  Bethune. 

**  Ah,  friends !  Friends  are  very  good  to 
comfort  and  talk  to  a  poor  little  girl,  but  they  are 
not  responsible.  They  cannot  be  applied  to  for 
fees  ;  whereas  an  uncle,  though    perhaps   not  so 

good  for  the  child "     Dr.  Vereker  turned   to 

Dr.  Roland  at  the  window.  "  I  may  be  pre- 
vented from  coming  to-morrow  so  soon  as  I 
should  wish  ;  indeed,  the  patient  should  be  looked 
at  again  to-night  if  I  had  time.  But  it  is  a  long 
way  to  come  back  here.  I  am  sure  it  will  be  a 
comfort  to  this  young  lady,  Dr.  Roland,  if  you, 
being  on  the  spot,  would  kindly  watch  the  case 
when   I  am  not  able  to  be  here." 

Dr.  Roland  cast  but  one  glance  at  the  doubt- 
ing spectators,  who  had  said,  "Only  you". 

"  With  all  my  heart,  and  thank  you  for  the 
confidence  you  put  in  me,"  he  said. 

•*  Oh,  that,"  said  the  great  doctor,  with  a  wave 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  83 

of  his  hand,  "  is  only  your  due.  I  have  to  thank 
you  for  one  or  two  hints,  and  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do  what  care  is  required  now.  We  may  con- 
gratulate ourselves  that  things  are  as  they  are  ; 
but  his  life  hangs  on  a  thread.  Thank  you.  I 
,may  rely  upon  you  then  ?  Good-evening,  madam  ; 
forgive  me  for  not  knowing  your  name.  Good- 
night, Miss  Mannering." 

Dr.  Roland  attended  the  great  man  to  the 
door ;  and  returned  again,  taking  three  steps  at 
a  time.  "You  see,"  he  cried  breathlessly,  "  I  am 
in  charge,  though  you  don't  think  much  of  me. 
He's  not  a  mercenary  man,  he  has  stayed  to  pull 
him  through  ;  but  we  shan't  see  much  more  of 
Dr.  Vereker.    There's  the  fees  saved  at  a  stroke." 

"And  there's  the  women,"  said  Miss  Bethune 
eagerly,  "  taking  real  pleasure  in  it,  and  growing 
fatter  and  fairer  every  day." 

"The  women  have  done  very  well,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  I'll  have  nothing  said  against  them. 
It's  they  that  have  pulled  him  through."  Dr. 
Roland  did  not  mean  to  share  his  triumph  with 
any  other  voluntary  aid. 

"Well,  perhaps  that  is  just,"  she  said,  regret- 
fully ;  "  but  yet  here  is  me  and  Gilchrist  hunger- 
ing for  something  to  do,  and  all  the  good  pounds 
a  week  that  might  be  so  useful  handed  over  to 
them." 

Dora  listened  to  all  this,  half  indignant,  half 
uncomprehending.  She  had  a  boundless  scorn 
of  the  "good  pounds"  of  which  Miss  Bethune  in 
her  Scotch  phraseology  spoke  so  tenderly.  And 
she  did  not  clearly  understand  why  this  particulai 


84  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

point  in  her  father's  Illness  should  be  so  much 
more  important  than  any  other.  She  heard  her 
own  affairs  discussed  as  through  a  haze,  resenting 
that  these  other  people  should  think  they  had  so 
much  to  do  with  them,  and  but  dimly  understand- 
ing what  they  meant  by  it.  Her  father,  indeed, 
did  not  seem  to  her  any  better  at  all,  when  she 
was  allowed  for  a  moment  to  see  him  as  he  lay 
asleep.  But  Dora,  fortunately,  thought  nothing 
of  the  expenses,  nor  how  the  little  money  that 
came  in  at  quarter  day  would  melt  away  like 
snow,  nor  how  the  needs,  now  miraculously  sup- 
olied  as  by  the  ravens,  would  look  when  the  in- 
valid awoke  to  a  consciousness  of  them,  and  of 
how  they  svere  to  be  provided  in  a  more  natural 
way. 

It  was  not  very  long,  howevei.  before  some- 
thing of  that  consciousness  awoke  in  the  eyes  of 
the  patient,  as  he  slowly  came  back  into  the  at- 
mosphere of  common  life  from  which  he  had 
been  abstracted  so  long.  He  was  surprised  to 
find  Dr.  Roland  at  his  pillow,  which  that  eager 
student  would  scarcely  have  left  by  day  or  night 
if  he  could  have  helped  it,  and  the  first  glimxm.er- 
ing  of  anxiety  about  his  ways  and  means  came 
into  his  face  when  Roland  explained  hastily  that 
Vereker  came  faithfully  so  long  as  tiiere  was  any 
danger.  "  But  now  he  thinks  a  poor  little  practi- 
tioner like  myself,  being  on  the  spot,  will  do,"  he 
said,  with  a  laugh.  "Saves  fees,  don't  you 
know  ?  " 

"  Fees  ? "  poor  Mannering  said,  with  a  be- 
wildered consciousness  ;  and  next  morning  began 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  S5 

to  ask  when  he  could  go  back  to  the  Museum. 
Fortunately,  all  ideas  were  dim  in  that  floating 
weakness  amid  the  sensations  of  a  man  coming 
back  to  life.  Convalescence  is  sweet  in  youth; 
but  it  is  not  sweet  when  a  man  whose  life  is 
already  waning  comes  back  out  of  the  utter 
prostration  of  disease  into  the  lesser  but  more 
conscious  ills  of  common  existence.  Presently  he 
began  to  look  at  the  luxuries  with  which  he  was 
surrounded,  and  the  attendants  who  watched  over 
him,  with  alarm.  "  Look  here,  Roland,  I  can't 
afford  all  this.  You  must  put  a  stop  to  all  this," 
he  said. 

"  We  can't  be  economical  about  getting  well, 
my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  doctor.  "That's  the 
last  thing  to  save  money  on." 

••  But  I  haven't  got  it !  One  can't  spend 
what  one  hasn't  got,"  cried  the  sick  man.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  his  progress  was  retarded, 
and  the  indispensable  economies  postponed,  by 
this  new  invasion  of  those  cares  which  are  to  the 
mind  what  the  drainage  which  Dr.  Vereker  alone 
believed  in  is  to  the  body. 

'*  Never  mind,  father,"  Dora  said  in  her  ignor- 
ance ;  "  it  will  all  come  right." 

"Right?  How  is  it  to  come  right?  Take 
that  stuff  away.  Send  these  nurses  away.  I 
can't  afford  it.  Do  you  hear  me?  I  cannot 
afford  it  1"  he  began  to  cry  night  and  day. 


CHAPTER  VIII.  ! 

Mr.  Mannering's  convalescence  was  worse  than 
his  illness  had  been  to  the  house  in  Bloomsbury. 
Mrs.  Simcox's  weekly  bill  fell  by  chance  into  the 
patient's  hands,  and  its  items  filled  him  with 
horror.  When  a  man  is  himself  painfully  sup- 
ported on  cups  of  soup  and  wings  of  chicken,  the 
details  of  roast  lamb  for  the  day-nurse's  dinner, 
and  bacon  and  eggs  for  the  night-nurse's  break- 
fast, take  an  exaggerated  magnitude.  And  Mrs. 
Simcox  was  very  conscientious,  putting  down 
even  the  parsley  and  the  mint  which  were  neces- 
sary for  these  meals.  This  bill  put  back  the 
patient's  recovery  for  a  week,  and  prolonged  the 
expenses,  and  brought  the  whole  house,  as  Mrs. 
Simcox  declared  tearfully,  on  her  comparatively 
innocent  head. 

"  For  wherever's  the  bill  to  go  if  not  to  the 
gentleman  hisself?"  cried  the  poor  woman.  "He's 
sittin'  up  every  day,  and  gettin'  on  famous,  by 
what  I  hears.  And  he  always  did  like  to  see 
'is  own  bills,  did  Mr.  Mannering :  and  what's  a 
little  bit  of  a  thing  like  Miss  Dora  to  go  to,  to 
make  her  understand  money  ?  Lord  bless  you ! 
she  don't  spend  a  shilling  in  a  week,  nor  knows 
nothing  about  it.  And  the  nurses,  as  was  always 
to  have  everything  comfortable,  seeing  the  'ard 
Work  as  they  'as,   poor  things.     And  if  it  was  a 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  Zy 

bit  o'  mint  for  sauce,  or  a  leaf  o'  parsley  for 
garnish,  I'd  have  put  it  in  out  o'  my  own 
pocket  and  welcome,  if  I'd  a  thought  a  gentleman 
would  go  on  about  sich  things." 

"  You  ridiculous  woman,  why  couldn't  you 
have  brought  it  to  me,  as  you  have  done  before  ? 
And  who  do  you  suppose  cares  for  your  parsley 
and  your  mint  ? "  cried  Miss  Bethune.  But  no- 
body knew  better  than  Miss  Bethune  that  the 
bills  could  not  now  be  brought  to  her  ;  and  it  was 
v/ith  a  sore  heart,  and  that  sense  of  the  utter 
impossibility  of  affording  any  help,  with  which  we 
look  on  impotent  at  the  troubles  of  our  neighbours, 
whom  we  dare  not  offend  even  by  our  sympathy, 
that  she  went  downstairs  in  a  morning  of  July, 
when  London  was  hot  and  stifling,  yet  still,  as 
ever,  a  little  grace  and  coolness  dwelt  in  the 
morning,  to  refresh  herself  with  a  Vvalk  under  the 
trees  in  the  Square,  to  which  she  had  a  privilege 
of  entrance. 

Even  in  London  in  the  height  of  summer  the 
morning  is  sweet.  There  is  that  sense  of  ease 
and  lightness  in  it,  which  warm  and  tranquil 
weather  brings,  before  it  comes  too  hot  to  bear. 
There  were  smells  in  the  streets  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  din  of  passing  carts  and  carriages,  of 
children  playing,  of  street  cries  and  shouts,  which 
v/ould  sometimes  become  intolerable;  but  in  the 
morning  there  v/as  shade  and  softness,  and  a  sense 
of  trouble  suspended  for  the  moment  or  withdrawn, 
which  often  follows  the  sudden  sharp  realisation  of 
any  misfortune  which  comes  with  the  first  waking. 
The  pavement  was  cool,  and  the  air  was  (compara- 


88  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

tively)  sweet.  There  was  a  tinkle  of  water,  though 
only  from  a  water  cart.  Miss  Bethune  opened  the 
door  into  this  sweetness  and  coolness  and  morning 
glory  which  exists  even  in  Bloomsbury,  and  found 
herself  suddenly  confronted  by  a  stranger,  whose 
hand  had  been  raised  to  knock  when  the  door 
thus  suddenly  opened  before  him.  The  sudden 
encounter  gave  her  a  little  shock,  which  was  not 
lessened  by  the  appearance  of  the  young  man — a 
young  fellow  of  three  or  four  and  twenty,  in  light 
summer  clothes,  and  with  a  pleasant  sunburnt 
countenance. 

Not  his  the  form,  not  his  the  eye, 
That  youthful  maidens  wont  to  fly. 

Miss  Bethune  was  no  youthful  maiden,  but  this 
sudden  apparition  had  a  great  effect  upon  her. 
The  sight  made  her  start,  and  grow  red  and  grow 
pale  without  any  reason,  like  a  young  person  in 
her  teens. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  young  man, 
making  a  step  back,  and  taking  off  his  hat. 
This  was  clearly  an  afterthought,  and  due  to  her 
appearance,  which  was  not  that  of  the  mistress  of 
a  lodging-house.     "  I  vv'anted  to  ask  after  a " 

"  I  am  not  the  person  of  the  house,"  said  Miss 
Bethune  quickly. 

'*  Might  I  ask  you  all  the  same?  I  v/ould  so 
much  rather  hear  from  some  one  who  knows  him." 

Miss  Bethune's  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  him 
with  the  closest  attention,  but  her  interest 
suddenly  changed  and  dropped  at  the  last  word, 
^'Him.-^"  she  said  involuntarily,  with  a  flash  out 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  89 

of  her  eyes,  and  a  look  almost  of  disappointment, 
almost  of  surprise.  What  had  she  expected  ? 
She  recovered  in  a  moment  the  composure 
which  had  been  disturbed  by  this  stranger's 
appearance,  for  what  reason  she  only  knew. 

"  I  came,"  he  said,  hesitating  a  little,  and 
giving  her  another  look,  in  which  there  was  also 
some  surprise  and  much  curiosity,  "  to  inquire 
about  Mr.  Mannering,  who,  I  am  told,  lives  here." 

"  Yes,  he  lives  here." 

"And  has  been  ill.?" 

"  And  has  been  ill,"  she  repeated  after  him. 

The  young  man  smiled,  and  paused  again. 
He  seemed  to  be  amused  by  these  repetitions.  He 
had  a  very  pleasant  face,  not  intellectual,  not  re- 
markable, but  full  of  life  and  good-humour.  He 
said :  "  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  trouble  you  ;  but 
if  you  know  him,  and  his  child " 

"  I  know  him  very  well,  and  his  child, — who 
is  a  child  no  longer,  but  almost  grown  up.  He 
is  slowly  recovering  out  of  a  very  long  dangerous 
mess. 

"  That  is  what  we  heard.  I  came,  not  for 
myself,  but  for  a  lady  who  takes  a  great  interest. 
I  think  that  she  is  a  relation  of — of  Mr.  Manner- 
ing's  late  wife." 

"  Is  that  woman  dead,  then  ? "  Miss  Bethune 
said.  *'  I  too  take  a  great  interest  in  the  family. 
!  shall  be  glad  to  tell  you  anything  I  know  :  but 
come  with  me  into  the  Square,  where  we  can  talk 
at  our  ease."  She  led  him  to  a  favourite  seat 
under  the  shadow  of  a  tree.  Though  it  was  in 
Bloosnsbury,  and  the  sounds  of  town  were  in  the 


90  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

air,  that  quiet  green  place  might  have  been  far 
in  the  country,  in  the  midst  of  pastoral  acres. 
The  Squares  of  Bloomsbury  are  too  respectable 
to  produce  many  children.  There  were  scarcely 
even  any  perambulators  to  vulgarise  this  retreat. 
She  turned  to  him  as  she  sat  down,  and  said 
again  :  ''  So  that  woman  is  dead  .'*" 

The  young  stranger  looked  surprised.  "You 
mean  Mrs.  Mannering } "  he  said.  **  I  suppose 
so,  though  I  know  nothing  of  her.  May  I  say 
who  I  am  first.''  My  name  is  Gordon.  I  have 
just  come  from  South  America  with  Mrs.  Bristow, 
the  wife  of  my  guardian,  who  died  there  a  year 
ago.     And  it  is  she  who  has  sent  me  to  inquire." 

**  Gordon?"  said  Miss  Bethune.  She  had 
closed  her  eyes,  and  her  head  was  going  round  ; 
but  she  signed  to  him  with  her  hand  to  sit  down, 
and  made  a  great  effort  to  recover  herself  "  You 
will  be  of  one  of  the  Scotch  families  'i "  she  said. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  never  been  in  this 
country  till  now." 

"  Born  abroad  ?  "  she  said,  suddenly  opening 
her  eyes. 

•'  I  think  so — at  least — but,  indeed,  I  can  tell 
you  very  little  about  myself.  It  was  Mrs.  Bris- 
tow 

•'  Yes,  I  know,  I  am  very  indiscreet,  putting 
so  many  questions,  but  you  reminded  me  of — oi 
some  one  I  once  knew.  Mrs.  Bristov/,  you  were 
saying  .-*  " 

**  She  was  very  anxious  to  know  something  oj 
Mr.  Mannering  and  his  child.  I  think  she  must 
be  a  relation  of  his  late  wife." 


A  House  m  Bloofusbury.  91 

"God  be  thanked  if  there  is  a  relation  that 
may  be  of  use  to  Dora.  She  wants  to  know — 
what?  If  you  were  going  to  question  the  land- 
lady, it  would  not  be  much " 

"  I  was  to  try  to  do  exactly  what  I  seem  to 
have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  have  done — to  find 
some  friend  whom  I  could  ask  about  them.  I  am 
sure  you  must  be  a  friend  to  them  ?" 

•'  How  can  you  be  sure  of  that,  you  that  know 
neither  them  nor  me  r  " 

He  smiled,  with  a  very  attractive,  ingenuous 
smile.     *'  Because  you  have  the  face  of  a  friend." 

"  Have  I  that  ?  There's  many,  many,  then, 
that  would  have  been  the  better  for  knowing  it  that 
have  never  found  't  out.  And  you  are  a  friend  to 
Mrs.  Bristow  on  the  other  side  ?  " 

"  A  friend  to  her  i* — no,  I  am  more  like  her  son, 
yet  not  her  son,  for  my  ovv-n  mother  is  living — at 
least,  I  believe  so.  I  am  her  servant,  and  a  little 
her  ward,  and — devoted  to  her,"  he  added,  with  a 
bright  flush  of  animation  and  sincerity.  Miss 
Bethune  took  no  notice  of  these  last  words. 

"  Your  mother  is  living,  you  believe?  and  don't 
you  know  her,  then  ?  And  why  should  you  be 
ward  or  son  to  this  other  woman,  and  your  mother 
anve  i 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  young  man,  "  that  is  my 
stor}^  and  it  is  not  worth  a  thought.  The  question 
is  about  Mrs.  Bristow  and  the  Mannerings.  She 
is  anxious  about  them,  and  she  is  very  broken  in 
health.  And  I  think  there  is  some  family  trouble 
there  too,  so  that  she  can't  come  in  a  natural 
straightforward  way  and  make  herself  known  to 


92  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

them.  These  family  quarrels  are  dreadful 
things." 

"  Dreadful  things,"  Miss  Bethune  said. 

**  They  are  bad  enough  for  those  with  whom 
ihey  originate ;  but  for  those  who  come  after,  worse 
still.  To  be  deprived  of  a  natural  friend  all  your 
life  because  of  some  row  that  took  place  before  you 
were  born ! " 

"  You  are  a  Daniel  come  to  judgment,"  said 
Miss  Bethune,  pale  to  her  very  lips. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said  kindly,  "  I  am  not  saying 
anything  I  ought  not  to  say  ?  I  hope  you  are  not 
ill }  " 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  waving  her  hand. 
"About  this  Mrs.  Bristow,  that  is  what  we  were 
talking  of.  The  Mannerings  could  not  be  more 
in  need  of  a  friend  than  they  are  now.  He  has 
been  very  ill.  I  hear  it  is  very  doubtful  if  he'll 
ever  be  himself  again,  or  able  to  go  back  to  his 
occupation.  And  she  is  very  young,  nearly 
grown  up,  but  still  a  child.  If  there  was  a  friend, 
a  relation,  to  stand  up  for  them,  now  would  be 
the  very  time." 

•*  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  I  have  been  very 
fortunate  in  finding  you,  but  I  don't  think  Mrs. 
Bristow  can  take  any  open  step.  My  idea  is  that 
she  must  be  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Mannering,  and  thus 
involved  in  the  dissension,  whatever  it  was." 

"It  was  more  than  a  dissension,  so  far  as  I 
have  heard,"  Miss  Bethune  said. 

"  That  is  what  makes  it  so  hard.  What  she 
wishes  is  to  see  Dora." 

"Dora?" 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  93 

"  Indeed,  I  mean  no  disrespect.  I  have  never 
known  her  by  any  other  name,  I  have  helped 
to  pack  boxes  for  her,  and  choose  playthings." 

Miss  Bethune  uttered  a  sudden  exclamation, 

"Then  it  v/as  from  Mrs.  Bristow  the  boxes 
came  1 " 

"  Have  I  let  out  something  that  was  a  secret  ? 
I  am  not  very  good  at  secrets,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh. 

"  She  might  be  an  aunt  as  you  say  : — an  aunt 
would  be  a  good  thing  for  her,  poor  child  : — or 

she  might  be But  is  it  Dora  only  she  wants 

to  see  ?  " 

"  Dora  only ;  and  only  Dora  if  it  is  certain 
that  she  would  entertain  no  prejudices  against  a 
relation  of  her  mother." 

"  How  could  there  be  prejudices  of  such  a 
kind  ?  " 

**  That  is  too  much  to  say  :  but  I  know  from 
my  own  case  that  there  are,"  the  young  man  said. 

"  I  would  like  to  hear  your  own  case." 

He  laughed  again  "You  are  very  kind  to  be 
so  much  interested  in  a  stranger :  but  I  must 
settle  matters  for  my  kind  guardian.  She  has  not 
been  a  happy  wom.an,  I  don't  know  why, — though 
he  was  as  good  a  man  as  ever  lived  : — and  now 
she  is  in  very  poor  health — oh,  really  ill.  I 
scarcely  thought  I  could  h3.ve  got  her  to  England 
alive.  To  see  Dora  is  all  she  seems  to  wish  for. 
Help  me,  oh,  help  me  to  get  her  that  gratifica- 
tion ! "  he  cried. 

Miss  Bethune  smiled  upon  him  in  reply,  with 
an   involuntary  moveir.ent  of  her  hands  towards 


94  -^  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

him.     She  was  pale,  and  a  strange  light  was  on 
her  face. 

"  I  will  do  that  if  I  can,"  she  said.  "  I  will  do 
it  if  it  is  possible.  If  I  help  you  what  will  you 
give  me  in  return  ?  " 

The  youth  looked  at  her  in  mild  surprise.  He  ( 
did  not  understand  what  she  could  mean.  "Give  ; 
you  in  return  .-* "  he  asked,  with  astonishment. 

"  Ay,  my  young  man,  for  my  hire  ;  everybody 
has  a  price,  as  I  daresay  you  have  heard  said 
— which  is  a  great  lie,  and  yet  true  enough.  Mine 
is  not  just  a  common  price,  as  you  will  believe. 
I'm  full  of  fancies,  a — whimsical  kind  of  a  being. 
You  will  have  to  pay  me  for  my  goodwill." 

He  rose  up  from  the  seat  under  the  tree,  and, 
taking  off  his  hat  again,  made  her  a  solemn  bow. 
"  Anything  that  is  within  my  power  I  will  gladly 
give  to  secure  my  good  guardian  what  she  wishes. 
I  owe  everything  to  her." 

Miss  Bethune  sat  looking  up  at  him  with  that 
light  on  her  face  which  made  it  unlike  everything 
that  had  been  seen  before.  She  was  scarcely 
recognisable,  or  would  have  been  to  those  who 
already  knew  her.  To  the  stranger  standing 
somewhat  stiffly  before  her,  surprised  and  some- 
what shocked  by  the  strange  demand,  it  seemed 
that  this,  as  he  had  thought,  plain  middle-aged 
woman  had  suddenly  become  beautiful.  ' 

He  had  liked  her  face  at  the  first.  It  had 
seemed  to  him  a  friend's  face,  as  he  had  said. 
But  now  it  was  something  more.  The  surprise, 
the  involuntary  start  of  repugnance  from  a  woman, 
a  lady,  who  boldly  asked  something  in  return  for 


A  House  in  Bloomsdury.  95 

the  help  she  promised^  mingled  with  a  strange 
attraction  towards  her,  and  extraordinary  curi- 
osity as  to  what  she  could  mean.  To  pay  for 
her  goodwill !  Such  a  thing  is,  perhaps,  implied  in 
every  prayer  for  help  ;  gratitude  at  the  least,  if 
nothing  more,  is  the  pay  which  all  the  world  is 
supposed  to  give  for  good  offices  :  but  one  does 
not  ask  even  for  gratitude  in  words.  And  she 
was  in  no  hurry  to  explain.  She  sat  in  the  warm 
shade,  with  all  the  greenness  behind,  and  looked 
at  him  as  if  she  found  somehow  a  supreme  satis- 
faction in  the  sight — as  if  she  desired  to  prolong 
the  moment,  and  even  his  curiosity  and  surprise. 
He  on  his  part  was  stiff,  disturbed,  not  happy 
at  all.  He  did  not  like  a  woman  to  let  herself 
down,  to  show  any  wrong  side  of  her,  any  acquisi- 
tiveness, or  equivocal  sentiment.  What  did  she 
want  of  him?  What  had  he  to  give?  The 
thought  seemed  to  lessen  himself  by  reason  of 
lessening  her  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  a  very  whimsical  woman," 
she  said  at  length ;  "  above  all  things  I  am  fond 
of  hearing  every  man's  stjry,  and  tracing  out  the 
different  threads  oi  life.  It  is  my  amusement, 
like  any  other.  If  I  bring  this  lady  to  speech  of 
Dora,  and  show  her  how  she  could  be  of  real 
advantage  to  both  the  girl  and  her  father,  will 
you  promise  me  to  come  to  me  another  time,  and 
tell  me,  as  far  as  you  know,  everything  that  has 
happened  to  you  since  the  day  you  were  born  ?  " 

Young  Gordon's  stiffness  melted  away.  The 
surprise  on  his  face,  which  had  been  mingled 
with  annoyance,  turaed  into  mirsb  and  pleasure. 


g6  A  House  in  Bloomsbhwy, 

*'  You  don't  know  what  you  are  bringing  on  your- 
self," he  said,  **  nothing  very  amusing.  I  have 
little  in  my  own  record.  I  never  had  any  adven- 
tures. But  i.*"  that  is  your  fancy,  surely  I  will, 
whenever  you  like,  tell  you  everything  that  I 
know  about  myself." 

She  rose  up,  vv^ith  the  light  lading  a  little,  but 
yet  leaving  behind  it  a  sweetness  which  was  not 
generally  in  Miss  Bethune's  face.  **  Let  your 
friend  come  in  the  afternoon  at  three  any  day — it 
is  then  her  father  takes  his  sleep — and  ask  for 
Miss  Bethune.  I  will  see  that  it  is  made  all 
right.  And  as  for  you,  you  will  leave  me  your 
address.'*"  she  said,  going  with  him  towards  the 
gate.  **  You  said  you  believed  your  mother  was 
living — is  your  father  living  too  ?  " 

"He  died  a  long  time  ago,"  said  the  young 
man,  and  then  added  :  *'  May  I  not  know  who  it 
is  that  is  standing  our  friend  }  " 

Perhaps  Miss  Bethune  did  not  hear  him ; 
certainly  she  let  him  out ;  and  turned  to  lock  the 
gate,  without  making  any  reply. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Dora  had  now  a  great  deal  to  do  in  her  father's 
room.  The  two  nurses  had  at  last  been  got  riJ 
of,  to  the  great  relief  of  all  in  the  house  except 
Mrs.  Simcox,  whose  bills  shrank  back  at  once  to 
their  original  level,  very  different  from  what  they 
had  been,  and  who  felt  herself,  besides,  to  be 
reduced  to  quite  a  lower  level  in  point  of  society, 
her  thoughts  and  imaginations  having  been  filled, 
as  well  as  those  of  Janie  and  Molly,  by  tales  of 
the  hospitals  and  sick-rooms,  which  made  them 
feel  as  if  translated  into  a  world  where  the  gaiety 
of  perfect  health  and  constant  exercise  triumphed 
over  every  distress.  Janie  and  Molly  had  both 
determined  to  be  nurses  in  the  enthusiasm  created 
by  these  recitals.  They  turned  their  little  night- 
caps, the  only  things  they  had  which  could  be 
so  converted,  into  imitation  nurses'  caps,  and 
masqueraded  in  them  in  the  spare  moments  when 
they  could  shut  themselves  into  their  little  rooms 
and  play  at  hospital.  And  the  sitting-room  down- 
stairs returned  for  these  young  persons  to  its 
original  dulness  when  the  nurses  went  away. 
Dora  was  in  her  father's  room  all  day,  and 
required  a  great  deal  of  help  from  Jane,  the  maid- 
of-all-work,  in  bringing  up  and  taking  away  the 
things  that  were  wanted :  and  Gilchrist  watched 
over  him  bv  night.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
(97) 


98  A  House  in  Bloomsbtiry. 

beef  tea  and  chicken  broth  to  be  prepared — no 
longer  the  time  and  trouble  saving  luxuries  of 
Brand's  Essence  and  turtle  soup.  He  would  have 
none  of  these  luxuries  now.  He  inquired  into 
every  expense,  and  rejected  presents,  and  was 
angry  rather  than  grateful  when  anything  was 
done  for  him.  What  he  would  have  liked  would 
have  been  to  have  eaten  nothing  at  all,  to  have 
passed  over  meal-times,  and  lived  upon  a  glass  of 
water  or  milk  and  a  biscuit.  But  this  could  not 
be  allowed  ;  and  Mrs.  Simcox  had  now  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  in  cooking  for  him,  whereas  before 
she  had  scarcely  any  at  all.  Mr,  Mannering, 
indeed,  was  not  an  amiable  convalescent.  The 
breaking  up  of  all  the  habits  of  his  life  was  dread- 
ful to  him.  The  coming  back  to  new  habits  was 
more  dreadful  still.  He  thought  with  horror  of 
the  debts  that  must  have  accumulated  while  he 
was  ill ;  and  when  he  spoke  of  them,  looked  and 
talked  as  if  the  whole  world  had  been  in  a  con- 
spiracy against  him,  instead  of  doing  everything, 
and  contriving  everything,  as  was  the  real  state  of 
the  case,  for  his  good. 

*•  Let  me  have  my  bills,  let  me  have  my  bills  ; 
let  me  know  how  I  stand,"  he  cried  continually  to 
Dr.  Roland,  who  had  the  hardest  ado  to  quiet 
him,  to  persuade  him.  that  for  everything  there  is 
a  reason.  "  I  know  these  women  ought  to  be 
paid  at  once,"  he  would  say.  "  I  know  a  man 
like  Vereker  ought  to  have  his  fee  every  time  he 
comes.  You  intend  it  ven^  kindly,  Roland,  I 
know  ;  but  you  are  keeping  me  back,  instead  of 
helping   me   to   recover."     What  was  poor    Dr. 


A  House  in  Blooinsbury  99 

RolarAcl  to  say  ?  He  was  afraid  to  tell  this  proud 
man  that  everything  was  paid.  That  Vereker 
had  taken  but  half  fees,  declaring  that  from  a  pro- 
fessional man  of  such  distinction  as  Mr.  Manner- 
ing,  he  ought,  had  the  illness  not  been  so  long 
and  troublesome,  to  have  taken  nothing  at  all, — 
was  a  possible  thing  to  say  ;  but  not  that  Miss 
Bethune's  purse  had  supplied  these  half  fees. 
Even  that  they  should  merely  be  half  was  a  kind 
of  grievance  to  the  patient.  "  I  hope  you  told 
him  that  as  soon  as  I  v/as  well  enough  I  should 
see  to  it,"  he  cried.  "  I  have  no  claim  to  be  let 
off  so.  Distinction  !  the  distinction  of  a  half  man 
who  never  accomplished  anything!" 

"  Come,  Mannering,  come,  that  will  not  do. 
You  are  the  first  and  only  man  in  England  in 
your  own  way." 

"  In  my  own  way  ?  And  what  a  miserable 
petty  way,  a  way  that  leads  to  nothing  and  no- 
where ! "  he  cried. 

This  mood  did  not  contribute  to  recovery. 
After  his  laborious  dressing,  which  occupied  all 
the  morning,  he  would  sit  in  his  chair  doing 
nothing,  saying  nothing,  turning  with  a  sort  of 
sickness  of  despair  from  books,  not  looking  even  at 
the  paper,  without  a  smile  even  for  Dora.  The  only 
thing  he  vvould  sometimes  do  was  to  note  down 
figures  with  a  pencil  on  a  sheet  of  paper  and  add 
them  up,  and  make  attempts  to  balance  them 
with  the  sum  which  quarter  day  brought  him. 
Poor  Mr.  Mannering  was  refused  all  information 
about  the  sums  he  was  owing  ;  he  put  them  down 
conjecturally,   noiv  adding  something,    now  sub- 


icx>  A  House  in  Bloomshury, 

tracting  something.  As  a  matter  of  fact  his 
highest  estimation  was  below  the  truth.  And 
then,  by  some  unhappy  chance,  the  bills  that  were 
lying  in  the  sitting-room  were  brought  to  him. 
Alas !  the  foolishest  bills — bills  which  Dora's 
father,  knowing  that  she  was  unprovided  tor, 
should  never  have  incurred — bills  for  old  books, 
for  fine  editions,  for  delicate  scientific  instruments. 
A  man  with  only  his  income  from  the  Museum, 
and  his  child  to  provide  for,  should  never  have 
thoucrht  of  such  things. 

"  Father,"  said  Dora,  thinking  of  nothing  but 
to  rouse  him,  "  there  is  a  large  parcel  which  has 
never  been  opened,  which  came  from  Fiddler's 
after  you  were  taken  ill.  I  had  not  any  heart  to 
open  it  to  see  what  was  in  it ;  but  perhaps  it 
would  amuse  you  to  look  at  what  is  in  it  now." 

"Fiddler's?"  he  said,  with  a  sick  look  of 
dismay.  "Another — another!  What  do  I  want 
with  books,  when  I  have  not  a  penny  to  pay  my 
expenses,  nor  a  place  to  hide  my  head  }  " 

"  Oh,  father,  don't  talk  so  :  only  have  patience, 
and  everything  will  come  right,"  cried  Dora,  with 
the  facile  philosophy  of  youth.  "  They  are  great 
big  books ;  I  am  sure  they  are  something  you 
wanted  very  much.  It  will  amuse  you  to  look  at 
them,  at  least." 

He  did  not  consent  in  words,  but  a  half  motion 
of  his  head  made  Dora  bring  in,  after  a  little  delay 
to  undo  the  large  parcel,  two  great  books  covered 
with  old-fashioned  gilding,  in  brown  leather,  frayed 
at  the  corners — books  to  make  the  heart  of  a  con- 
noisseur dance,  books  looked  out  for  in  catalogues, 


A  House  in  Blooms 6 ary.  10 1 

followed  about  from  one  sale  to  another  Mr. 
Mannering's  eyes,  though  they  were  dim  and 
sunken,  gave  forth  a  momentary  blaze=  He  put 
out  his  trembling  hands  for  them,  as  Dora  ap- 
proached, almost  tottering  under  the  weight, 
carrying  them  in  her  arms. 

"  I  will  put  them  beside  you  on  the  table, 
father.  Now  you  can  look  at  them  without  tiring 
yourself,  and  I  will  run  and  fetch  your  beef  tea. 
Oh,  good  news!"  cried  Dora,  flinging  into  Miss 
Bethune's  room  as  she  ran  downstairs.  "He  is 
taking  a  little  interest!  I  have  just  given  him 
the  books  from  Fiddler  s,  and  he  is  looking  a  little 
like  his  own  self." 

She  had  interrupted  what  seemed  a  very 
serious  conversation,  perceiving  this  only  now 
after  she  had  delivered  her  tidings.  She  blushed, 
drew  back,  and  begged  Miss  Bethune's  pardon, 
with  a  curious  look  at  the  unknown  visitor  who 
was  seated  on  the  sofa  by  that  lady's  side.  Dora 
knew  all  Miss  Bethune's  visitors  by  heart.  She 
knew  most  of  those  even  who  were  pensioners, 
and  came  for  money  or  help,  and  had  been  used 
to  be  called  in  to  help  to  entertain  the  few  callers 
for  years  past  But  this  was  some  one  altogether 
new,  not  like  anybody  she  had  ever  seen  before, 
very  much  agitated,  with  a  grey  and  worn  face, 
which  got  cruelly  red  by  moments,  looking  ill, 
tired,  miserable.  Poor  lady  !  and  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, which  was  no  doubt  the  cause  of  her  trouble, 
and  a  heavy  crape  veil  hanging  over  her  face. 
She  gave  a  little  cry  at  the  sight  of  Dora,  and 
clasped  her  hands.     The  gesture  caused  her  veil 


I02  A  House  iat  Bloomsbury. 

to  descend  like  a  cloud,  completely  concealing 
her  face. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  indeed.  I  did  not  know 
there  was  anybody  here." 

Miss  Bethune  made  her  a  sign  to  be  silent, 
and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  visitor's  arm,  who  was 
tremulously  putting  up  her  veil  in  the  same 
dangerous  overhanging  position  as  before. 

"This  is  Dora — as  you  must  have  guessed," 
she  said. 

The  lady  began  to  cry,  feebly  sobbing,  as  if 
she  could  not  restrain  herself  "  I  saw  it  was — I 
saw  it  was,"  she  said. 

"Dora,  come  here,"  said  Miss  Bethune. 
"  This  lady  is — a  relation  of  yours — a  relation  of 
— your  poor  mamma." 

The  lady  sobbed,  and  held  out  her  hands. 
Dora  was  not  altogether  pleased  with  her  appear- 
ance. She  might  have  cried  at  home,  the  girl 
thought.  When  you  go  out  to  pay  a  call,  or  even 
to  make  inquiries,  you  should  make  them  and  not 
cry  :  and  there  was  something  that  was  ridiculous 
in  the  position  of  the  veil,  ready  to  topple  over  in 
its  heavy  folds  of  crape  She  watched  it  to  see 
when  the  moment  would  come. 

"  Why  '  my  poor  mamma '  ?  "  said  Dora.  "  Is 
it  because  mother  is  dead  }  " 

"  There  are  enough  of  reasons,"  Miss  Bethune 
said  hastily. 

Dora  flung  back  her  head  with  a  sudden 
resistance  and  defiance.  "  I  don't  know  about 
mother.  She  has  been  dead  ever  since  I  remem- 
ber ;  but  she  was  my  mother,  and  nobody  bi*s  any 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  103 

right  to  be  sorry  for  her,  as  though  that  were  a 
misfortune.' 

"  She  is  a  little  perverse  thing,"  said  Miss 
Bethune,  "but  she  has  a  great  spirit.  Dora, 
come  here.  I  will  go  and  see  about  your  papa's 
beef  tea,  while  you  come  and  speak  to  this  lady." 
She  stooped  over  the  girl  for  a  moment  as  she 
passed  her  going  out.  "And  be  kind,"  she 
whispered;  "for  she's  very  ill,  poor  thing,  and 
very  broken.  Be  merciful  in  your  strength  and 
in  your  youth." 

Dora  could  not  tell  what  this  might  mean. 
Merciful  ?  She,  who  was  still  only  a  child,  and, 
to  her  ov/n  consciousness,  ordered  about  by  every- 
body, and  made  nothing  of  The  stranger  sat  on 
the  sofa,  trembling  and  sobbing,  her  face  of  a 
sallow  paleness,  her  eyes  half  extinguished  in 
tears.  The  heavy  folds  of  the  crape  hanging  over 
her  made  the  faded  countenance  appear  as  if 
looking  out  of  a  cave. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well,"  said  Dora, 
drav/ing  slowly  near. 

"No,  I  am  not  at  all  well.  Come  here  and 
sit  by  me,  will  you  .■*     I  am — dying,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Dora,  with  a  half  horror,  half 
pity.     "  Do  not  say  that." 

The  poor  lady  shook  her  head.  "  I  should 
not  mind,  if  perhaps  it  made  people  a  little  for- 
giving— a  little  indulgent.  Oh,  Dora,  my  child, 
is  it  you,  really  you,  at  last  .-^ " 

Dora  suffered  her  hand  to  be  taken,  suffered 
herself  to  be  drawn  close,  and  a  tremulous  kiss 
pressed  upon  her  cheek     She  did  not  know  how 


I04  A  House  iii  Bhomsbuvy, 

to  respond.  She  felt  herself  entangled  in  the 
great  crape  veil,  and  her  face  wet  with  the  other's 
tears.  She  herself  was  touched  by  pity,  but  by  a 
little  contrariety  as  well,  and  objection  to  this 
sudden  and  so  intimate  embrace. 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry  if  you  are  ill,"  she 
said,  disengaging  herself  as  gently  as  possible, 
"  My  father  has  been  very  ill,  so  I  know  about 
it  now ;  but  I  don't  know  you." 

"  My  darling,"  the  poor  lady  said.  "  My 
darling,  my  little  child !  my  Dora,  that  I  have 
thought  and  dreamed  of  night  and  day  1 " 

Dora  was  more  than  ever  confused.  "  But  I 
don't  know  you  at  all,"  she  said. 

"  No,  that  is  what  is  most  dreadful :  not  at 
all,  not  at  all ! — and  I  dying  for  the  sight  of  you, 
and  to  hold  you  in  my  arms  once  before  I  die." 

She  held  the  girl  with  her  trembling  arms, 
and  the  two  faces,  all  entangled  and  overshadowed 
by  the  great  black  veil,  looked  into  each  other, 
so  profoundly  unlike,  not  a  line  in  either  which 
recalled  or  seemed  to  connect  with  the  other. 
Dora  was  confounded  and  abashed  by  the  close 
contact,  and  her  absolute  incapacity  to  respond  to 
this  enthusiasm.  She  put  up  her  hands,  which 
was  the  only  thing  that  occurred  to  her,  and  threw 
quite  back  with  a  subdued  yet  energetic  move- 
ment that  confusing  veil.  She  was  conscious  of 
performing  this  act  very  quietly,  but  to  the  stran- 
ger the  quick  soft  movement  was  like  energy  and 
strength  personified. 

"Oh,  Dora,"  she  said,  "you  are  not  like  me. 
I  never  was  so  lively,  so  strong  as  you  are.     I 


A  House  in  Blooms  bury.  105 

think  I  must  have  been  a  poor  creature,  always 
depending  upon  somebody.  You  could  never  be 
like  that." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Dora.  "  Ought  I  to  have 
been  like  you }  Are  we  such  near  relations  as 
that  ?  " 

"just  as  near  as — almost  as  near  as — oh, 
child,  how  I  have  longed  for  you,  and  thought  of 
you !  You  have  never,  never  been  out  of  my 
mind — not  a  day,  Dora,  scarcely  an  hour.  Oh,  if 
you  only  knev/  !  " 

"You  must  then  have  been  very  fond  of  my 
mother,"  Dora  said  a  little  stiffly.  She  might 
have  been  less  cold  had  this  enthusiasm  been  less 
great. 

"  Your  mother ! "  the  stranger  said.  She  broke 
out  into  audible  weeping  again,  after  comparative 
composure.  "Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  I  was — oh, 
yes,  I  suppose  I  was,"  she  said. 

**  You  only  suppose  you  were,  and  yet  you 
are  so  fond  as  this  of  me.^* — which  can  be  only," 
said  Dora,  severely  logical,  "  for  her  sake." 

The  poor  lady  trembled,  and  was  still  for  a 
moment ;  she  then  .said,  faltering  :  "  We  were  so 
close  together,  she  and  I.  We  were  like  one. 
But  a  child  is  different — you  are  her  and  your- 
self too.  But  you  are  so  young,  my  dearest,  my 
dearest!     You  will  not  understand  that." 

"  I  understand  it  partly,"  said  Dora;  "but  it 
is  so  strange  that  I  never  heard  of  you.  Were 
my  mother's  relations  against  my  father."*  You 
must  forgive  me,"  the  girl  said,  withdrawing  her- 
self a  little,  sitting  very  upright;  "but  father,  you 


io6  A  House  in  Bloomshury. 

know,  has  been  everything  to  me.  Father  and 
I  are  one.  I  should  like  very  much  to  hear  about 
mamma,  who  must  have  died  so  long  ago :  but 
my  first  thought  must  always  be  for  father,  who 
has  been  everything  to  me,  and  I  to  him." 

A  long  minute  passed,  during  which  the 
stranger  said  nothing.  Her  head  was  sunk  upon 
her  breast ;  her  hand — which  was  on  Dora's  waist 
— quivered,  the  nervous  fingers  beating  uncon- 
sciously upon  Dora's  firm  smooth  belt. 

"I  have  nothing,  nothing  to  say  to  you  against 
your  father.  Oh,  nothing ! — not  a  word  1  I  have 
no  complaint — no  complaint !  He  is  a  good  man, 
your  father.  And  to  have  you  cling  to  him,  stand 
up  for  him,  is  not  that  enough.'* — is  not  that 
enough,"  she  cried,  with  a  shrill  tone,  "whatever 
failed  ? " 

"  Then,"  said  Dora,  pursuing  her  argument, 
*'  mamma's  relations  were  not  friends  to  him.'*  " 

The  lady  v/ithdrew  her  arm  from  Dora's  waist. 
She  clasped  her  tremulous  hands  together,  as  if 
in  supplication.  '*  Nothing  was  done  against  him 
— oh,  nothing,  nothing  I  "  she  cried.  "  There  was 
no  one  to  blame,  everybody  said  so.  It  was  a 
dreadful  fatality;  it  was  a  thing  no  one  could  have 
foreseen  or  guarded  against.  Oh,  my  Dora, 
couldn't  you  give  a  little  love,  a  little  kindness,  to 
poor  woman,  even  though  she  was  not  what  you 
rail  a  friend  to  your  father  ?  She  never  was  his 
enemy — never,  never ! — never  had  an  evil  thought 
of  him  ! — never  MMshed  to  harm  him — oh,  never, 
r.ever,  never!"  she  cried. 

She  swayed    against   Dora's   breast,   rocking 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  107 

herself  in  uncontrolled  distress,  and  Dora's  heart 
was  touched  by  that  involuntary  contact,  and  by 
the  sight  of  an  anguish  which  was  painfully  real, 
thouoh  she  did  not  understand  what  it  meant. 
With  a  certain  protecting  impulse,  she  put  her 
own  arm  round  the  weeping  v/oman  to  support 
her.  "  Don't  cry,"  she  said,  as  she  might  have 
said  to  a  child. 

**  I  will  not  cry.  I  will  be  very  glad,  and  very 
happy,  if  you  will  only  give  me  a  little  of  your 
love,  Dora,"  the  lady  sobbed  in  a  broken  voice. 
"  A  little  of  your  love, — not  to  take  it  from  your 
father, — a  little,  just  a  little !  Oh,  my  child,  my 
child ! " 

"Are  you  my  mother's  sister  ?  "  the  girl  asked 
solemnly. 

The  stranger  raised  her  head  again,  with  a 
look  which  Dora  did  not  understand.  Her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  and  of  a  wistful  appeal  which 
said  nothing  to  the  creature  to  whom  it  was  ad- 
dressed. After  a  moment,  with  a  pathetic  cry  of 
pain  and  self-abandonment,  she  breathed  forth  a 
scarcely  intelligible  "  Yes  ". 

"  Then  now  I  know,"  said  Dora,  in  a  more 
satisfied  tone.  She  was  not  without  emotion  her- 
self. It  was  impossible  to  see  so  much  feeling 
and  not  to  be  more  or  less  affected  by  it,  even 
when  one  did  not  understand,  or  even  felt  it  to  be 
extreme.  "  Then  I  will  call  you  aunt,  and  we 
shall  know  where  we  are,"  she  added.  "  I  am 
very  glad  to  have  relations,  as  everybody  has 
them.  May  I  mention  you  to  father?  It  must 
be  long  since  you   quarrelledj   whatever   it   was 


2oS  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

about.  I  shall  say  to  him  :  '  You  need  not  take 
any  notice,  but  I  am  glad,  very  glad,  to  have  an 
aunt  like  other  girls '." 

"  No,  no,  no,  no — not  to  him !  You  must  not 
say  a  word." 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  can  keep  a  secret  from 
father,"  Dora  said. 

"Oh,  child,"  cried  the  lady,  "do  not  be  too 
hard  on  us!  It  would  be  hard  for  him,  too,  and 
he  has  been  ill.  Don't  say  a  word  to  him — for 
his  own  sake  I " 

"It  will  be  very  strange  to  keep  a  secret  from 
father,"  Dora  said  reflectively.  Then  she  added  : 
"T.O  be  sure,  there  have  been  other  things — 
about  the  nurses,  and  all  that.  And  he  is  still 
very  weak.  I  will  not  mention  it,  since  you  say 
it  is  for  his  own  sake." 

"For  we  could  never  meet — never,  never!" 
cried  the  lady,  with  her  head  on  Dora's  breast — 
"  never,  unless  perhaps  one  of  us  were  dying.  I 
could  never  look  him  in  the  face,  though  perhaps 

if  I  v/ere  dying- Dcra,  kiss  your  poor— your 

poor,  poor — relation.  Oh,  my  child !  oh,  my 
darling  !  kiss  me  as  ihat !  " 

"  Dear  aunt,"  said  Dora  quietly.  She  spoke 
in  a  very  subdued  tone,  in  order  to  keep  down 
the  quite  uncalled-for  excitement  and  alm.ost 
passion  in  the  other's  voice.  She  could  not  but 
feel  that  her  new  relation  was  a  person  with  very 
little  self-control,  expressing  herself  far  too 
strongly,  with  repetitions  and  outcries  quite 
uncalled  lor  in  ordinary  conversation,  and  that  it 
was  her,  Dora's,  business  to  exercise  a  mollifying 


A  House  in  Bloomsoury,  109 

influence.  "This  is  for  you,"  she  said,  touching 
the  sallow,  thin  cheek  with  her  young  rosy  lips. 
"And  this  is  for  poor  mamma — poor  young 
mamma,  whom  I  never  saw." 

The  lady  gave  a  quick  cry,  and  clutched  thf 
girl  in  her  trembling  arms. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  meeting  with  her  nev/  relation  had  a  great 
effect  upon  Dora's  mind.  It  troubled  her,  though 
there  was  no  reason  in  the  world  why  the  dis- 
covery that  her  mother  had  a  sister,  and  she  her- 
self an  aunt,  should  be  painful.  An  aunt  is  not 
a  very  interesting  relation  generally,  not  enough 
to  make  a  girl's  heart  beat ;  but  it  added  a  com- 
plication to  the  web  of  altogether  new  difficul- 
ties in  which  Dora  found  herself  entangled. 
Everything  had  been  so  simple  in  the  old  days 
— those  dear  old  days  now  nearly  three  months 
off,  before  Mr.  Mannering  fell  ill,  to  which  now 
Dora  felt  herself  go  back  with  such  a  sense  of 
happiness  and  ease,  perhaps  never  to  be  known 
again.  Then  everything  had  been  above  board  : 
there  had  been  no  payments  to  make  that  were 
not  made  naturally  by  her  father,  the  fountain- 
head  of  everything,  who  gave  his  simple  orders, 
and  had  them  fulfilled,  and  provided  for  every 
necessity.  Now  Dora  feared  a  knock  at  the  door 
of  his  room  lest  it  should  be  some  indiscreet 
messenger  bringing  direct  a  luxury  or  novelty 
which  it  had  been  intended  to  smuggle  in  so  that 
he  might  not  observe  it,  or  introduce  with  some 
one's  compliments  as  an  accidental  offering  to  the 
sick  man.  To  hurry  off  Janie  or  Molly  down- 
stairs with  these  good  things  intended  to  tempt 

(no) 


A  House  in  Bloomshury.  1 1 1 

the  invalid's  appetite,  to  stamp  a  secret  foot  at 
the  indiscretions  of  Jane,  who  would  bring  in  the 
bill  for  these  dainties,  or  announce  their  arrival 
loud  out,  rousing  Mr,  Mannering  to  inquiries, 
and  give  a  stern  order  that  such  extravagances 
should  be  no  more,  were  now  common  experi- 
ences to  Dora.  She  had  to  deceive  him,  which 
was.  Miss  Bethune  assured  her,  for  his  good,  but 
v/hich  Dora  felt  with  a  sinkinof  heart  was  not  at 
all  for  her  own  good,  and  made  her  shrink  from 
her  father's  eye.  To  account  for  the  presence  of 
some  rare  v/ine  which  was  good  for  him  by  a 
little  story  which,  though  it  had  been  carefully 
taught  her  by  Dr.  Roland  or  Miss  Bethune,  was 
not  true — to  make  out  that  it  was  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  that  patds  de  fois  gras, 
and  the  strongest  soups  and  essence  should  be 
no  more  expensive  than  common  beef  tea,  the 
manufacture  of  Bloomsbur}%  because  the  doctor 
knew  some  place  where  they  were  to  be  had  at 
wholesale  rates  for  alm.ost  nothing — these  were 
devices  now  quite  familiar  to  her. 

It  was  no  worse  to  conceal  the  appearance  of 
this  new  and  strange  personage  on  the  scene,  the 
relation  of  whom  she  had  never  heard,  and  whose 
existence  was  to  remain  a  secret ;  but  still  it  was 
a  bigger  secret  than  any  that  concerned  the  things 
that  were  to  eat  or  drink,  or  even  Mrs.  Simcox's 
bills.  Concealment  is  an  art  that  has  to  be  care- 
fully learnt,  like  other  arts,  and  it  is  extremely 
difficult  to  some  m.inds,  who  will  more  easily 
acquire  the  most  elaborate  handicraft  than  the 
trick  of  selecting  what  is  to  be  told  and  what  is 


112  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

not  to  be  told.  It  was  beyond  all  description 
difficult  to  Dora.  She  was  ready  to  betray  herself 
at  almost  every  moment,  and  had  it  not  been  that 
her  own  mind  was  much  perturbed  and  troubled 
by  her  strange  visitor,  and  by  attempts  to  account 
for  her  to  herself,  she  never  could  have  succeeded 
in  it.  What  could  the  offence  be  that  made  it  im- 
possible for  her  father  ever  to  meet  the  sister  of 
his  wife  again?  Dora  had  learned  from  novels  a 
great  deal  about  the  mysteries  of  life,  some  v/hich 
her  natural  mind  rejected  as  absurd,  some  which 
she  contemplated  with  awe  as  tragic  possibilities 
entirely  out  ot  the  range  of  common  life.  She 
had  read  about  implacable  persons  who  once 
offended  could  never  forgive,  and  of  those  who 
revenged  themselves  and  pursued  a  feud  to  the 
death.  But  the  idea  of  her  father  in  either  of 
these  characters  was  too  ridiculous  to  be  dwelt 
upon  tor  a  moment.  And  there  had  been  no  evil 
intended,  no  harm, — only  a  fatality.  What  is  a 
fatality  ?  To  have  such  dreadful  issues,  a  thing 
must  be  serious,  very  terrible.  Dora  was  be- 
wildered and  overawed.  She  put  this  question  to 
Miss  Bethune,  but  received  no  light  on  the  subject. 
"A  fatality  is  a  thing  that  is  not  intentional — that 
happens  by  accident — that  brings  harm  when  you 
mean  nothing  but  good,"  that  authority  said. 

"But  how  should  that  be.'*  It  says  in  the 
Bible  that  people  must  not  do  evil  that  good  may 
come.  But  to  do  good  that  evil  may  come,  I 
never  heard  of  that." 

"  There  are  many  things  in  the  world  that 
you  never  heard  of,  Dora,  my  dear." 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  113 

•*Oh  yes,  yes,  I  know,"  cried  the  girl  im- 
patiently. "  You  are  always  saying  that,  because 
I  am  young — as  if  it  were  my  fault  that  I  am 
young ;  but  that  does  not  change  anything.  It 
is  no  matter,  then,  whether  you  have  any  mean- 
ing in  v/hat  you  do  or  not  ? " 

"  Sometimes  it  appears  as  if  it  was  no  matter 
We  walk  blindly  in  this  world,  and  often  do 
things  unawares  that  we  w^ould  put  our  hands  in 
the  fire  rather  than  do  You  say  an  unguarded 
word,  meaning  nothing,  and  it  falls  to  the  ground, 
as  you  think,  but  afterwards  springs  up  into  a 
poisonous  tree  and  blights  your  life ;  or  you  take 
a  turn  to  the  right  hand  instead  of  the  left  when 
you  go  out  from  your  own  door,  and  it  means 
ruin  and  death — that's  fatality,  and  it's  every- 
where," said  Miss  Bethune,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  it,"  said  Dora,  standing 
straight  and  strong,  like  a  young  tree,  and  hold- 
ing her  head  high. 

•'  Nor  did  1,  my  dear,  when  I  was  your  age," 
Miss  Bethune  said. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  light  knock  at 
the  door,  and  there  appeared  suddenly  the  young 
man  whom  Miss  Bethune  had  met  in  the  Square, 
and  who  had  come  as  the  messenger  of  the  lady 
who  was  Dora's  aunt. 

•'  She  is  asking  me  what  fatality  is,"  said  Miss 
Bethune.  **  I  wonder  if  you  have  any  light  to 
throw  on  the  subject?  You  are  nearer  her  age 
than  I." 

The  two  young  people  looked  at  each  other. 
Dora,  though  she  was  only  sixteen,  was  more  of  a 


114  A  House  in  Bloomsbury^ 

personage  than  the  young  Gordon  whom  she  had 
not  seen  before.  She  looked  at  him  with  the 
condescension  of  a  very  young  girl  brought  up 
among  elder  people,  and  apt  to  feel  a  boundless 
imaginative  superiority  over  those  of  her  own  age. 
A  young  man  was  a  slight  person  to  Dora.  She 
was  scarcely  old  enough  to  feel  any  of  the  interest 
in  him  which  exists  naturally  between  the  youth 
and  the  maiden.  She  looked  at  him  from  her 
pedestal,  half  scornful  beforehand  of  anything  he 
might  say 

"Fatality?"  he  said.  "I  think  it's  a  name 
people  invent  for  anything  particularly  foolish 
which  they  do,  when  it  turns  out  badly :  though 
they  might  have  knowL  it  would  turn  out  badly 
all  the  time." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  think,"  cried  Dora, 
clapping  her  hands. 

"  This  is  the  young  lady,"  said  young  Gordon, 
"whom  I  used  to  help  to  pack  the  toys  for.  I 
hope  she  will  let  me  call  her  Miss  Dora,  for  I 
don't  know  her  by  any  other  name." 

"To  pack  the  toys?"  said  Dora.  Her  face 
grew  blank,  then  flashed  with  a  sudden  light,  then 
grew  quite  white  and  still  again,  with  a  gasp  of 
astonishment  and  recognition.  "Oh!"  she  cried, 
(Lnd  something  of  disappointment  was  in  her  tone, 
'was  it — was  it  she  that  sent  them?"  In  the 
commotion  of  her  feelings  a  sudden  deep  red 
followed  the  paleness.  Dora  was  all  fancy, 
changeableness,  fastidiousness,  imagination,  as  was 
natural  to  her  age.  Why  was  she  disappointed 
to  know  that  her  yearly  presents  coming  out  of 


A  House  ill  Bloomsbury.  115 

the  unseen,  the  fairy  gifts  that  testified  to  some 
love  unknown,  came  from  so  legitimate  a  source, 
from  her  mother's  sister,  her  own  nearest  relation 
— the  lady  of  the  other  day  ?  I  cannot  tell  how  it 
was,  nor  could  she,  nor  any  one,  but  it  was  so  ; 
and  she  felt  this  visionary,  absurd  disappointment 
go  to  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  "  Oh,"  she  re- 
peated, growing  blank  again,  with  a  sort  of  opaque 
shadow  closing  over  the  brightness  of  her  eyes 
and  clouding  her  face,  "  so  that  was  where  my 
boxes  came  from  ?  And  you  helped  to  pack  the 
toys  ?  I  ought  to  have  known,"  said  Dora,  very 
sedately,  feeling  as  if  she  had  suddenly  fallen 
from  a  great  height. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  "  we  ought  to  have 
thought  of  that  at  once.  Who  else  could  have 
followed  with  such  a  faithful  imagination,  Dora? 
Who  could  have  remembered  your  age,  and  the 
kind  of  things  you  want,  and  how  you  would  grow, 
but  a  kind  woman  like  that,  with  all  the  feelings 
of  a  mother  ?  Oh,  we  should  have  thought  of  it 
before." 

Dora  at  first  made  no  reply.  Her  face,  gener- 
ally so  changeable  and  full  of  expression,  settled 
down  more  and  more  into  opaqueness  and  a  blank 
rigidity  She  was  deeply  disappointed,  though 
why  she  cnuld  not  have  told — nor  what  dream  of 
a  fairy  patroness,  an  exalted  friend,  entirely  be- 
longing to  the  realms  of  fancy,  she  had  conceived 
in  her  childish  imagination  as  the  giver  of  these 
gifts.  At  all  events,  the  fact  was  so.  Mrs.  Bris- 
tow,  with  her  heavy  crape  veil,  ready  to  fall  at  any 
moment  over  her  face,  with  the  worn  lines  of  her 


ii6  A  House  in  Blooinsbury. 

countenance,  the  flush  and  heat  of  emotion,  her 
tears  and  repetitions^  was  a  disappointing  image  to 
come  between  her  and  the  vision  of  a  tender  friend, 
too  delicate,  too  ethereal  a  figure  for  any  common- 
place embodiment  which  had  been  a  kind  of  tute- 
\zxy  genius  in  Dora's  dreams  all  her  life.  Any  one 
in  actual  flesh  and  blood  would  have  been  a  shock 
after  that  long-cherished,  visionary  dream.  And 
young  Gordon's  laughing  talk  of  the  preparation 
of  the  box,  and  of  his  own  suggestions  as  to  its 
contents,  and  the  picture  he  conjured  up  of  a  mys- 
tery which  was  half  mischievous,  and  in  which 
there  was  not  only  a  desire  to  please  but  to  puzzle 
the  distant  recipient  of  all  these  treasures,  both 
offended  and  shocked  the  girl  in  the  fantastic 
delicacy  of  her  thoughts. 

Without  being  himself  aware  of  it,  the  young- 
man  gave  a  glimpse  into  the  distant  Southern 
home,  in  which  it  would  appear  he  had  been 
brought  up,  which  was  in  reality  very  touching 
and  attractive,  though  it  reduced  Dora  to  a  more 
and  more  strong  state  of  revolt.  On  the  other 
hand,  Miss  Bethune  listened  to  him  with  a  rapt 
air  of  happiness,  which  was  more  wonderful  still 
— asking  a  hundred  questions,  never  tiring  of  any 
detail.  Dora  bore  it  all  as  long  as  she  could, 
feeling  herself  sink  more  and  more  from  the  posi- 
tion of  a  young  princess,  mysteriously  loved  and 
cherished  by  a  distant  friend,  half  angelic,  half 
queenly,  into  that  of  a  little  girl,  whom  a  fantastic 
kind  relation  wished  to  pet  and  to  bewilder,  half 
in  love  and  half  in  fun,  taking  the  boy  into  her 
confidence,  who  was  still  more  to  her  and  nearer 


A  House  in  Bloovtsbury.  117 

to  her  than  Dora.  She  could  not  understand  how 
Miss  Bethune  could  sit  and  listen  with  that  rapt 
countenance;  and  she  finally  broke  in,  in  the  very 
midst  of  the  narrative  to  which  she  had  listened 
(had  any  one  taken  any  notice)  with  growing  im- 
patience, to  say  suddenly,  "In  the  meantime  father 
is  by  himself,  and  I  shall  have  to  go  to  him,"  with 
a  tone  of  something  like  injury  in  her  voice. 

*'  But  Gilchrist  is  there  if  he  wants,  anything, 
Dora." 

"Gilchrist  is  very  kind,  but  she  is  not  quite 
the  same  as  me,"  said  Dora,  holding  her  head 
high. 

She  made  Mr.  Gordon  a  little  gesture,  some- 
thing between  farewell  and  dismissal,  in  a  very 
lofty  way,  impressing  upon  the  young  man  a  sense 
of  having  somehow  offended,  which  he  could 
not  understand.  He  himself  was  very  much  in- 
terested in  Dora.  He  had  known  of  her  exist- 
ence for  years.  She  had  been  a  sort  of  secret 
between  him  and  the  wife  of  his  guardian,  who, 
he  was  well  aware,  never  discussed  with  her  hus- 
band or  mentioned  in  his  presence  the  child  who 
v/as  so  mysteriously  dear  to  her;  but  bestowed  all 
her  confidence  on  this  subject  on  the  boy  who  had 
grown  up  in  her  house  and  filled  to  her  the  place 
of  a  son.  He  had  liked  the  confidence  and  the 
secret  and  the  mystery,  without  much  inquiring 
what  they  meant.  They  meant,  he  supposed,  a 
family  quarrel,  such  as  that  which  had  affected  all 
his  own  life.  Such  things  are  a  bore  and  a  nuis- 
ance ;  but,  after  all,  don't  matter  very  much  to 
any  but  those  with   whom  they  originate.     And 


1 18  A  House  in  Bloomshury. 

young  Gordon  was  not  disposed  to  trouble  his 
mind  with  any  sort  of  mystery  now. 

"  Have  I  said  anything  I  should  not  have 
said  ?     Is  she  displeased  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It  matters  very  little  if  she  is  displeased  or 
not,  a  fantastic  little  girl!"  cried  Miss  Bethune. 
"  Go  on,  go  on  with  what  you  are  saying.  I  take 
more  interest  in  it  than  words  can  say." 

But  it  was  not  perhaps  exactly  the  same  thing 
to  continue  that  story  in  the  absence  of  the  hero- 
ine whose  name  was  its  centre  all  through.  She 
was  too  young  to  count  with  serious  effect  in  the 
life  of  a  man;  and  yet  it  would  be  difficult  to  draw 
any  arbitrary  line  in  respect  to  age  with  a  tall  girl 
full  of  that  high  flush  of  youth  which  adopts  every 
semblance  in  turn,  and  can  put  all  the  dignity  of 
womanhood  in  the  eyes  of  a  child.  Young  Gor- 
don's impulse  slackened  in  spite  of  himself;  he 
v/as  pleased,  and  still  more  amused,  by  the  inter- 
est he  excited  in  this  lady,  who  had  suddenly 
taken  him  into  her  intimacy  with  no  reason  that 
he  knew  of,  and  was  so  anxious  to  know  all  his 
story.  It  was  droll  to  see  her  listening  in  that 
rapt  way, — droll,  yet  touching  too.  She  had  said 
that  he  reminded  her  of  somebody  she  knew — 
perhaps  it  was  some  one  who  was  dead,  a  young 
brother,  a  friend  of  earlier  years.  He  laughed  a 
little  to  himself,  though  he  was  also  affected  by 
this  curious  unexpected  interest  in  him.  But  he 
certainly  had  not  the  same  freedom  and  eloquence 
in  talking  of  the  old  South  American  home,  now 
broken  up,  and  the  visionary  little  maiden,  who, 
all  unknown  herself,  had  lent  it  a  charm,  when 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  1 1 9 

Dora  was  gone.  Neither,  perhaps,  did  Miss 
Bethune  concentrate  her  interest  on  that  part  that 
related  to  Dora.  When  he  began  to  flag  she 
asked  him  questions  of  a  different  kind. 

"  Those  guardians  of  yours  must  have  been 
very  good  to  you — as  good  as  parents  ? "  she 
said. 

''Very  good,  but  not  perhaps  Hke  parents;  for 
I  remember  my  father  very  well,  and  I  still  have 
a  mother,  you  know." 

"Your  father,"  she  said,  turning  away  her 
head  a  little,  "was  devoted  to  you.  I  suppose .f*" 

"  Devoted  to  me .'' "  he  said,  with  a  little 
surprise,  and  then  laughed.  "He  was  kind 
enough.  We  got  on  very  well  together.  Do 
men  and  their  sons  do  more  than  that }  " 

"  I  know  very  little  about  men  and  their 
sons,"  she  said  hastily;  "about  men  and  women 
I  maybe  know  a  little,  and  not  much  to  their 
advantage.  Oh,  you  are  there,  Gilchrist !  This 
is  the  gentleman  I  was  speaking  to  you  about. 
Do  you  see  the  likeness  ?  " 

Gilchrist  advanced  a  step  into  the  room,  with 
much  embarrassment  in  her  honest  face.  She 
uttered  a  broken  laugh,  v/hich  v/as  like  a  giggle, 
and  began  as  usual  to  fold  hems  in  her  apron. 

**  I  cannot  say,  mem,  that  I  see  a  resemblance 
to  any  person,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  just  a  stupid  creature ! "  said  her 
mistress, — "  good  for  nothing  but  to  make  an 
invalid's  beef  tea.  Just  go  away,  go  away  and  do 
that."  She  turned  suddenly  to  young  Gordon,  as 
Gilchrist  went  out  of  the  room.     "That  stupid 


I20  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

woman's    face    doesn't    bring    anything    to   your 
mind  ?  "  she  said  hastily. 

"  Bring  anything  to  my  mind?"  he  cried,  with 
great  surprise.  "  What  should  she  bring  to  my 
mind  ?  " 

"It  was  just  a  fancy  that  came  into  mine. 
Do  you  remember  the  scene  in  Guy  Mannering, 
v/here  Bertram  first  sees  Dominie  Sampson  ? 
Eh,  I  hope  your  education  has  not  been  neglected 
in  that  great  particular  ?  " 

"  i  remember  the  scene,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile. 

"It  was  perhaps  a  little  of  what  you  young 
folk  call  melodramatic :  but  Harry  Bertram's 
imagination  gets  a  kind  of  shock,  and  he  remem- 
bers. And  so  you  are  a  reader  of  Sir  Walter, 
and  mind  that  scene  ? " 

"  I  remember  it  very  well,"  said  the  young- 
man,  bewildered.  "  But  about  the  maid  1  You 
said " 

"  Oh,  nothing  about  the  maid  ;  she's  my  faith- 
ful maid,  but  a  stupid  woman  as  ever  existed. 
Never  you  mind  what  I  said.  I  say  things  that 
are  very  silly  from  time  to  time.  But  I  would 
like  to  know  how  you  ever  heard  your  mother 
was  living,  v.-hen  you  have  never  seen  her,  nor 
know  anything  about  her  ?  I  suppose  not  even 
her  name  ? " 

"My  father  told  me  so  when  he  was  dying: 
he  told  Mr.  Bristow  so,  but  he  gave  us  no  further 

information.     I  gathered  that  my  mother It 

is  painful  to  betray  such  an  impression." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  deep  red  rising  over 


A  House  in  Bloomsbiiry.  121 

her  cheeks,  and  a  half-defiant  look.  *'  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  your  mother,  you  need  not  hesitate 
to  speak  before  me,"  she  said. 

"It  is  not  that ;  it  is  that  I  can't  associate  that 
name  with  anything — anything^ — to  be  ashamed 
of." 

"  I  would  hope  not,  indeed  ! "  she  cried,  stand- 
ing up,  towering  over  him  as  if  she  had  added  a 
foot  to  her  height.  She  gave  forth  a  long  fiery 
breath,  and  then  asked,  "  Did  he  dare  to  say 
that  ?  "  with  a  heaving  breast. 

"He  did  not  say  it :  but  my  guardian  thought 

•'Oh,  your  guardian  thought!  That  was 
what  your  guardian  would  naturally  think.  A 
man — that  is  always  of  an  evil  mind  where  women 
are  concerned  !  And  what  did  she  think  i* — her, 
his  wife,  the  other  guardian,  the  woman  I  have 
seen  .'* 

"  She  is  not  like  any  one  else,"  said  young 
Gordon ;  "  she  will  never  believe  in  any  harm. 
You  have  given  me  one  scene,  I  will  give  you 
another.  She  said  what  Desdemona  said,  '  I  do 
not  believe  there  was  ever  any  such  woman '." 

"Bless  her!  But  oh,  there  are — there  are!" 
cried  Miss  Bethune,  tears  filling  her  eyes,  "  in  life 
as  well  as  in  men's  ill  imaginations.  But  not 
possible  to  her  or  to  me !  " 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Young  Gordon  had  gone,  and  silence  had  fallen 
over  Miss  Bethune's  room.  It  was  a  common- 
place room  enough,  well-sized,  for  the  house  was 
old  and  solid,  with  three  tall  windows  swathed  in 
red  rep  curtains,  partially  softened  but  not  extin- 
guished by  the  white  muslin  ones  which  had  been 
put  up  over  them.  Neither  Miss  Bethune  nor 
her  maid  belonged  to  the  decorative  age.  They 
had  no  principles  as  to  furniture,  but  accepted 
what  they  had,  with  rather  a  preference  than 
otherwise  for  heavy  articles  in  mahogany,  and 
things  that  were  likely  to  last.  They  thought 
Mr.  Mannering's  dainty  furniture  and  his  faded 
silken  curtains  were  rather  of  the  nature  of  trum- 
pery. People  could  think  so  in  these  days,  and 
in  the  locality  of  Bloomsbury,  without  being 
entirely  abandoned  in  character,  or  given  up  to 
every  vicious  sentiment.  Therefore,  I  cannot 
say,  as  I  should  be  obliged  to  say  now-a-days,  in 
order  to  preserve  any  sympathy  for  Miss  Bethune 
in  the  reader's  mind,  that  the  room  was  pretty, 
and  contained  an  indication  of  its  mistress's 
character  in  every  carefully  arranged  corner.  It 
was  a  room  furnished  by  Mrs.  Simcox,  the  land- 
lady. It  had  been  embellished,  perhaps,  by  a 
warm  hearthrug — not  Persian,  however,  by  any 
means—- and   made  comfortable  by  a  few  easy 


A  House  in  Bloomsbu^y.  123 

chairs.  There  were  a  number  of  books  about, 
and  there  v»ras  one  glass  full  of  wallflowers  on  the 
table,  very  sweet  in  sober  colours — a  flower  that 
rather  corresponds  with  the  mahogany,  and  the 
old-fashioned  indifference  to  ornament  and  love  of 
use.  You  would  have  thought,  had  you  looked 
into  this  room,  which  was  full  of  spring  sunshine, 
bringing  out  the  golden  tints  in  the  wallflower, 
and  reflected  in  the  big  mirror  above  the  fireplace, 
that  it  was  empty  after  young  Gordon  had  gone. 
But  it  was  not  empty.  It  was  occupied  instead 
by  a  human  heart,  so  overbursting  with  passionate 
hope,  love,  suspense,  and  anxiety,  that  it  was  a 
wonder  the  silence  did  not  tinge,  and  the  quiet 
atmosphere  betray  that  strain  and  stress  of  feel- 
ing. Miss  Bethune  sat  in  the  shadowed  corner 
between  the  fireplace  and  the  farther  window, 
with  the  whiteness  of  the  curtains  blowing  softly 
in  her  face  as  the  air  came  in.  That  flutter 
dazzled  the  beholder,  and  made  Gilchrist  think 
when  she  entered  that  there  was  nobody  there. 
The  maid  looked  round,  and  then  clasped  her 
hands  and  said  to  herself  softly  :  "  She'll  be  gane 
into  her  bedroom  to  greet  there  ". 

"And  why  should  I  greet,  you  foolish  woman?" 
cried  Miss  Bethune  from  her  corner,  with  a  thrill 
in  her  voice  which  betrayed  the  commotion  in  her 
mind. 

Gilchrist  started  so  violently  that  the  bundle 
of  clean  "things,"  fresh  and  fragrant  from  the 
country  cart  which  had  brought  home  the  washing, 
fell  from  her  arms.  "  Oh,  mem,  if  I  had  kent  you 
were  there." 


i^4  -^  Mouse  in  BlGomsbury, 

'^My  bonnie  clean  things!"  cried  Miss  Bethune, 
"  with  the  scent  of  the  grass  upon  them — and  now 
they're  all  spoiled  with  the  dust  of  Bloomsbury ! 
Gather  them  up  and  carry  them  away,  and  then 
you  can  come  back  here."  She  remained  for  a 
moment  as  quiet  as  before,  after  Gilchrist  had 
hurried  away ;  but  any  touch  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  move  her  in  her  agitation,  and  pre- 
sently she  rose  and  began  to  pace  about  the  room. 
"Gone  to  my  room  to  greet  there,  is  that  what 
she  thinks  ?  Like  Mary  going  to  the  grave  to 
weep  there.  No,  no,  that's  not  the  truth.  It's 
the  other  way.  I  might  be  going  to  laugh,  and 
to  clap  my  hands,  as  they  say  in  the  Psalms.  But 
laughing  is  not  the  first  expression  of  joy.  I 
would  maybe  be  more  like  greeting,  as  she  says. 
A  person  laughs  in  idleness,  for  fun,  not  for  joy. 
Joy  has  nothing,  nothing  but  the  old  way  of  tears, 
which  is  just  a  contradiction.  And  maybe,  after 
all,  she  was  right.  I'll  go  to  my  room  and  weep 
for  thankfulness,  and  lightheartedness,  and  joy." 

"Oh,  mem,"  cried  Gilchrist,  coming  in,  "gang 
.softly,  gang  softly !  You're  more  sure  than  any 
mortal  person  has  a  right  to  be." 

"  Ye  old  unbeliever,"  cried  Miss  Bethune, 
pausing  in  the  midst  of  her  sob.  "  What  has 
mortality  to  do  with  evidence.-*  It  would  be  just 
as  true  if  I  were  to  die  to-morrow,  for  that 
matter." 

*' Eh,  mem,"  cried  Gilchrist  again,  "  ye're 
awfu'  easy  to  please  in  the  way  of  evidence. 
What  do  you  call  evidence  ?  A  likeness  ye  think 
ye  see,  but   I   canna ;  and  there's  naething  in  a 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  185 

likeness.  Miss  Dora  is  no  more  like  her  papaw 
than  me,  there  is  nothing  to  be  lippened  to  in  the 
like  of  that.  And  then  the  age — that  would 
maybe  be  about  the  same,  I  grant  ye  that,  so 
much  as  it  comes  to ;  and  a  name  that  is  no'  the 
right  name,  but  a  kind  of  an  approach  to  it." 

"You  are  a  bonnie  person,"  cried  Miss  Bethune. 
"to  take  authority  upon  you  about  names,  and 
never  to  think  of  the  commonest  old  Scotch  cus- 
tom, that  the  son  drops  or  turns  the  other  way  the 
name  the  father  has  taken  to  his  own.  I  hope  I 
know  better!  If  nothing  had  ever  happened,  if 
the  lad  had  been  bred  and  trained  at  home,  he 
would  be  Gordon,  just  as  sure  as  he  is  Gordon 
now." 

"  I'm  no'  a  person  of  quality,  mem,"  said  Gil- 
christ, holding  her  ground.  "  I  have  never  set  up 
for  being  wan  of  the  gentry  :  it  would  ill  become 
me,  being  just  John  Gilchrist  the  smith's  daughter, 
and  your  servant-woman,  that  has  served  you  this 
five  and  twenty  years.  But  there  are  as  many 
Gordons  in  Aberdeen  as  there  are  kirk  steeples  in 
this  weary  London  town." 

Miss  Bethune  made  an  impatient  gesture. 
"  You're  a  sagacious  person,  Gilchrist,  altogether, 
and  mjght  be  a  ruling  elder  if  you  were  but  a 
man  :  but  I  think  perhaps  I  know  what's  in  it  as 
well  as  you  do,  and  if  I'm  satisfied  that  a  thing  is, 
I  will  not  yield  my  faith,  as  you  might  know  by 
this  time,  neither  to  the  Lord  President  himself, 
nor  even  to  you." 

"  Eh,  bless  me,  mem,  but  I  ken  that  weel ! " 
cried  Gilchrist ;  "  and  if  I  had  thought  you  were 


126  A  House  in  Bloomshiry. 

taking  it  on  that  high  line,  never  word  would 
have  come  out  of  my  mouth." 

"  I  am  taking  it  on  no  high  line — but  I  see 
what  is  for  it  as  well  as  what  is  against  it.  I  have 
kept  my  head  clear,"  said  Miss  Bethune.  "  On 
other  occasions,  I  grant  you,  I  may  have  let  my- 
self go :  but  in  all  this  I  have  been  like  a  judge, 
and  refused  to  listen  to  the  voice  in  my  own 
heart  But  it  was  there  all  the  time,  though  I 
crushed  it  down.  How  can  the  like  of  you  un- 
derstand ?  You've  never  felt  a  baby's  cry  go  into 
the  very  marrow  of  your  bones.  I've  set  the 
evidence  all  out,  and  pled  the  cause  before  my 
own  judgment,  never  listening  one  word  to  the 
voice  in  my  heart."  Miss  Bethune  spoke  with 
greater  and  greater  vehemence,  but  here  paused 
to  calm  herself.  "  The  boy  that  was  carried  off 
would  have  been  twenty-five  on  the  eighteenth  of 
next  month  (as  well  you  know),  and  this  boy  is 
just  on  five  and  twenty,  he  told  me  with  his  own 
lips ;  and  his  father  told  him  with  his  dying 
breath  that  he  had  a  mother  living.  He  had  the 
grace  to  do  that!  Maybe,"  said  Miss  Bethune, 
dropping  her  voice,  which  had  again  risen  in  ex- 
citement, "  he  was  a  true  penitent  when  it  came 
to  that.  I  wish  no  other  thing.  Much  harm  and 
misery,  God  forgive  him,  has  he  wrought ;  but  I 
wish  no  other  thing.  It  would  have  done  my 
heart  good  to  think  that  his  was  touched  and 
softened  at  the  last,  to  his  Maker  at  least,  if  no 
more." 

"  Oh,  mem,  the  one  would  go  with  the  other, 
if  what  you  think  is  true." 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  127 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  shutting  her  lips 
sight,  "no,  there's  no  necessity.  If  it  had  been 
so  what  would  have  hindered  him  to  give  the  boy 
chapter  and  verse  ?  Her  name  is  So-and-so,  you 
will  hear  of  her  at  such  a  place.  But  never  that 
— never  that,  though  it  would  have  been  so  easy ! 
Only  that  he  had  a  mother  living,  a  mother  that 
the  guardian  man  and  the  lad  himself  divined 
must  have  been  a Do  you  not  call  that  evi- 
dence?" cried  Miss  Bethune,  with  a  harsh  triumph. 
"  Do  you  not  divine  our  man  in  that  ?  Oh,  but  I 
see  him  as  clear  as  if  he  had  signed  his  name." 

"Dear  mem,"  cried  Gilchrist,  with  a  "tchick, 
tchick,"  of  troubled  sympathy  and  spectatorship, 
*'  you  canna  wish  he  had  been  a  true  penitent  and 
yet  think  of  him  like  that." 

"And  who  are  you  to  lay  down  the  law  and 
say  what  I  can  do  }  "  cried  the  lady.  She  added, 
with  a  wave  of  her  hand  and  her  head:  "We'll 
not  argue  that  question  :  but  if  there  ever  was  an 
action  more  like  the  man ! — just  to  give  the  hint 
and  clear  his  conscience,  but  leave  the  woman's 
name  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by  any  dozen  in  the 
place!  If  that  is  not  evidence,  I  don't  know 
what  evidence  is." 

Gilchrist  could  say  nothing  in  reply.  She 
shook  her  head,  though  whether  in  agreement  or 
in  dissidence  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  tell, 
and  folded  hem  upon  hem  on  her  apron,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  that,  as  if  it  had  been  the  most 
important  of  work.  "  I  was  wanting  to  speak," 
she  said,  "  when  you  had  a  moment  to  listen  to 
me,  about  two  young  folk." 


123  A  House  in  Bloontsbury. 

"What  two  young  folk?"  Miss  Bethune's 
eyes  lighted  up  with  a  gleam  of  soft  light,  her 
face  grew  tender  in  every  line.  *'  But  Dora  is  too 
young,  she  is  far  too  young  for  anything  of  the 
kind,"  she  said. 

"  Eh,  mem,"  cried  Gilchrist,  with  a  mingling 
of  astonishment,  admiration,  and  pity,  "can  ye 
think  of  nothing  but  yon  strange  young  man  ?  " 

'*  I  am  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  bairn,  the 
Doy  that  was  stolen  away  before  he  knev/  his  right 
hand  from  his  left,  and  now  is  come  home." 

**  Aweel,  aweel,"  said  Gilchrist,  **  we  will  just 
iiave  to  put  up  with  it,  as  we  have  put  up  with  it 
before.  And  sooner  or  later  her  mind  will  come 
back  to  what's  reasonable  and  true.  I  was 
speaking  not  of  the  young  gentleman,  or  of  any 
like  him,  but  of  the  two  who  were  up  in  the  attics 
that  you  were  wanting  to  save,  if  save  them  ye 
can.  They  are  just  handless  creatures,  the  one 
and  the  other  ;  but  the  woman's  no'  an  ill  person, 
poor  thing,  and  would  do  well  if  she  knew  the 
way.  And  a  baby  coming,  and  the  man  just  a 
weirdless,  feckless,  ill  man." 

•'  He  cannot  help  it  if  he  is  ill,  Gilchrist." 

"  Maybe  no',"  said  Gilchrist  cautiously.  "  I'm 
never  just  so  sure  of  that ;  but,  anyway,  he's  a 
delicate  creature,  feared  for  everything,  and  for 
a  Christian  eye  upon  him,  which  is  the  worst 
of  all ;  and  wherefore  we  should  take  them  upon 
our  shoulders,  folk  that  we  have  nothing  to  do 
with,  a  husband  and  wife,  and  the  family  that's 
coming " 

"Oh,   v/omsn/'   said   her   mistress,   "if  they 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  129 

have  got  just  a  step  out  of  the  safe  way  in  the 
beginning,  is  that  not  reason  the  more  for  helping 
them  back  ?  And  how  can  I  ever  know  what 
straits  he  might  have  been  put  to,  and  his  mother 
ignorant,  and  not  able  to  help  him  ?  " 

'*  Eh,  but  I'm  thankful  to  hear  you  say  that 
again !  "  Gilchrist  cried. 

"  Not  that  I  can  ever  have  that  fear  now,  for 
a  liner  young  man,  or  a  more  sweet  ingenuous 
look!  But  no  credit  to  any  of  us,  Gilchrist.  I'm 
thankful  to  those  kind  people  that  have  brought 
him  up ;  but  it  will  always  be  a  pain  in  my  heart 
that  I  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  training  of 
him,  and  will  never  be  half  so  much  to  him  as  that 
— that  lady,  who  is  in  herself  a  poor,  weakly 
woman,  if  I  may  say  such  a  word." 

"It  is  just  a  very  strange  thing,"  said  Gilchrist, 
"that  yon  lady  is  as  much  taken  up  about  our 
Miss  Dora  as  you  are,  mem,  about  the  young  lad." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Miss  Bethune,  with  a  nod  of  her 
head,  "but  in  a  different  way.  Her  mother's 
sister— very  kind  and  very  natural,  but  oh,  how 
different !  I  am  to  contrive  to  take  Dora  to  see 
her,  for  I  fear  she  is  not  long  for  this  world, 
Gilchrist.  The  young  lad,  as  you  call  him,  will 
soon  have  nobody  to  look  to  but " 

"  Mem  ! "  cried  Gilchrist,  drawing  herself  up, 
and  looking  her  mistress  sternly  in  the  face. 

Miss  Bethune  confronted  her  angrily  for  a 
moment,  then  coloured  high,  and  flung  down,  as 
it  were,  her  arms.  "No,  no!"  she  cried — "no, 
you  are  unjust  to  me,  as  you  have  been  many 
times  before,     I  am  not  glad  of  her  illness,  poor 

9 


130  A  House  in  Bloomshury. 

thing.  God  forbid  it !  I  am  not  exulting,  as  you 
think,  that  she  will  be  out  of  my  way.  Oh, 
Gilchrist,  do  you  think  so  little  of  me — a  woman 
you  have  known  this  long,  long  lifetime — as  to 
believe  that  ? " 

"  Eh,  mem,"  said  Gilchrist,  "  when  you  and 
me  begin  to  think  ill  of  each  other,  the  world  will 
come  to  an  end.  We  ken  each  ither  far  too  well 
for  that.  Ye  may  scold  me  whiles  v/hen  I  little 
deserve  it,  and  I  put  a  thing  upon  you  for  a 
minnit  that  is  nae  blame  of  yours  ;  but  na,  na, 
there  is  nae  misjudging  possible  between  you 
and  me." 

,  ^t  will  be  seen  that  Gilchrist  was  very  cautious 
in  the  confession  of  faith  just  extorted.  She  was 
no  flatterer.  She  knew  of  what  her  mistress  was 
capable  better  than  that  mistress  herself  did,  and 
had  all  her  weaknesses  on  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 
But  she  had  no  intention  of  discouraging  that 
faultv  but  v/ell-beloved  woman.  She  went  on  in 
indulgent,  semi-maternal  tones  :  "  You've  had  a 
great  deal  to  excite  you  and  trouble  you,  and  in 
my  opinion  it  would  do  ye  a  great  deal  of  good, 
and  help  ye  to  get  back  to  your  ordinary,  if  you 
would  just  put  everything  else  away,  and  consider 
with  me  what  was  to  be  done  for  thae  two  feckless 
young  folk.  If  the  man  is  not  put  to  do  anything, 
he  will  be  in  more  trouble  than  ever,  or  I'm  no 

"  And  it  might  have  been  him ! "  said  Miss 
Bethune  to  herself — the  habitual  utterance  which 
had  inspired  so  many  acts  of  charity.  "  I  think 
you  are  maybe  right,  Gilchrist,"  she  added;   "it 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  13 » 

will  steady  me,  and  do  me  good.  Run  downstairs 
and  see  if  the  doctor  is  in.  He  knows  more  about 
him  than  we  do,  and  we'll  just  have  a  good  con- 
sultation and  see  what  is  the  best  to  be  done." 

The  doctor  was  in,  and  came  directly,  and 
mere  was  a  very  anxious  consultation  about  the 
ivo  young  people,  to  whose  apparently  simple, 
commonplace  mode  of  life  there  had  come  so 
sudden  an  interruption.  Dr.  Roland  had  done 
more  harm  than  good  by  his  action  in  the  matter. 
He  confessed  that  had  he  left  things  alone,  and 
not  terrified  the  young  coward  on  the  verge  of 
crime,  the  catastrophe  might  perhaps,  by  more 
judicious  ministrations,  have  been  staved  off. 
Terror  of  being  found  out  is  not  always  a  preserva- 
tive, it  sometimes  hurries  on  the  act  which  it  ought 
to  prevent;  and  the  young  man  who  had  been  risk- 
ing his  soul  in  petty  peculations  which  he  might 
have  made  up  for,  fell  over  the  precipice  into  a 
great  one  in  sheer  cowardice,  when  the  doctor's 
keen  eye  read  him,  and  made  him  tremble.  Dr. 
Roland  took  blame  to  himself.  He  argued  that 
it  was  of  no  use  trying  to  find  Hesketh  another 
situation.  "  He  has  no  character,  and  no  one 
will  take  him  without  a  character  :  or  if  some 
Quixote  did,  on  your  word,  Miss  Bethune,  or 
mine,  who  are  very  little  to  be  trusted  in  such  a 
case,  the  unfortunate  wretch  would  do  the  same 
again.  It's  not  his  fault,  he  cannot  help  himself. 
His  grandfather,  or  perhaps  a  more  distant  rela- 
tion   " 

"  Do  not  speak  nonsense  to  me,  doctor,  for  I 
will  not  listen  to  it,"  said  Miss  Bethune.     "  When 


132  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

chere's  a  poor  young  wife  in  the  case,  and  a  baby 
coming,  how  dare  you  talk  about  the  fool's  grand- 
father ?  " 

"  Mem  and  sir,"  said  Gilchrist,  **  if  you  would 
maybe  listen  for  a  moment  to  me.  My  mistress, 
she  has  little  confidence  in  my  sense,  but  I  have 
seen  mony  a  thing  happen  in  my  day,  and  twenty 
years'  meddlin'  and  mellin'  with  poor  folk  under 
her,  that  is  always  too  ready  with  her  siller, 
makes  ye  learn  if  ye  were  ever  sae  silly.  Now, 
here  is  what  I  would  propose.  He's  maybe  more 
feckless  than  anything  worse.  He  will  get  no 
situation  without  a  character,  and  it  will  not  do 
for  you — neither  her  nor  you,  sir,  asking  your 
pardon — to  make  yourselves  caution  for  a  silly 
gowk  like  yon.  But  set  him  up  some  place  in  a 
little  shop  of  his  ain.  He'll  no  cheat  himsel',  and 
the  wife  she  can  keep  an  eye  on  him.  If  it's  in 
him  to  do  weel,  he'll  do  weel,  or  at  least  we'll  see 
if  he  tries ;  and  if  no',  in  that  case  ye'll  ken  just 
what  you  will  lose.  That  is  what  I  would  advise, 
if  you  would  lippen  to  me,  though  I  am  not  saying 
I  am  anything  but  a  stupid  person,  and  often  told 
so,"  Gilchrist  said. 

"It  is  not  a  bad  idea,  however,"  said  Dr. 
Roland. 

**  Neither  it  is.  But  the  hussy,  to  revenge 
herself  on  me  like  that ! "  her  mistress  cried. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

Young  Gordon  left  the  house  in  Bloomsbury  after 
he  had  dehvered  the  message  which  was  the 
object  of  his  visit,  but  which  he  had  forgotten  in 
the  amusement  of  seeing  Dora,  and  the  interest  of 
these  new  scenes  which  had  so  suddenly  opened 
up  in  his  Hfe.  His  object  had  been  to  beg  that 
Miss  Bethune  would  visit  the  lady  for  whom  it 
had  been  his  previous  object  to  obtain  an  entrance 
into  the  house  in  which  Dora  was.  Mrs.  Bristow 
was  ill,  and  could  not  go  again,  and  she  wanted  to 
see  Dora's  friend,  who  could  bring  Dora  herself, 
accepting  the  new  acquaintance  for  the  sake  of  the 
child  on  whom  her  heart  was  set,  but  whom  for 
some  occult  reason  she  would  not  call  to  her  in 
the  more  natural  way.  Gordon  did  not  believe  in 
occult  reasons.  He  had  no  mind  for  mysteries  ; 
and  was  fully  convinced  that  whatever  quarrel 
there  might  have  been,  no  man  would  be  so 
ridiculously  vindictive  as  to  keep  his  child  apart 
from  a  relation,  her  mother's  sister,  who  was  so 
anxious  to  see  her. 

But  he  was  the  kindest-hearted  youth  in  the 
world,  and  though  he  smiled  at  these  mysteries  he 
yet  respected  them  in  the  woman  who  had  been 
everything  to  him  in  his  early  life,  his  guardian's 
wife,  whom  he  also  called  aunt  in  the  absence  of 
any  other  suitable  title.     She  liked  that  sort  of 

(133) 


134  ^  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

thing- — to  make  mountains  of  molehills,  and  to  get 
over  them  with  great  expenditure  of  strategy  and 
sentiment,  when  he  was  persuaded  she  might  have 
marched  straight  forward  and  found  no  difficulty. 
But  it  was  her  way,  and  it  had  always  been  his 
business  to  see  that  she  had  her  way  and  was 
crossed  by  nobody.  He  was  so  accustomed  to  her 
in  all  her  weaknesses  that  he  accepted  them 
simply  as  the  course  of  nature.  Even  her  illness 
did  not  alarm  or  trouble  him.  She  had  been  deli- 
cate since  ever  he  could  remember.  From  the 
time  when  he  entered  upon  those  duties  of  son  or 
nephew  which  dated  so  far  back  in  his  life,  he  had 
always  been  used  to  make  excuses  to  her  visitors 
on  account  of  her  delicacy,  her  broken  health,  her 
inability  to  bear  the  effects  of  the  hot  climate. 
This  was  her  habit,  as  it  was  the  habit  of  some 
women  to  ride  and  of  some  to  drive ;  and  as  it 
was  the  habit  of  her  household  to  accept  whatever 
she  did  as  the  only  things  for  her  to  do,  he  ha(* 
been  brought  up  frankly  in  that  faith. 

His  own  life,  too,  had  always  appeared  very 
simple  and  natural  to  Harry,  though  perhaps  it 
scarcely  seemed  so  to  the  spectator.  His  child- 
hood had  been  passed  with  his  father,  who  was 
A  more  or  less  of  an  adventurer,  and  who  had  ac- 
customed his  son  to  ups  and  downs  which  he  was 
too  young  to  heed,  having  always  his  wants  at- 
tended to,  and  somebody  to  play  with,  whatever 
happened.  Then  he  had  been  transferred  to  the 
house  of  his  guardian  on  a  footing  which  he  was 
too  young  to  inquire  into,  which  was  indeed  the 
simple  footing  of  a  son,  receiving  everything  from 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  135 

his  new  parents,  as  he  had  received  everything 
from  his  old.  To  find  on  his  guardian's  death 
that  he  had  nothing,  that  no  provision  was  made 
for  him,  was  something  of  a  shock ;  as  had  been 
the  discovery  on  his  twenty-first  birthday  that  his 
guardian  was  simply  his  benefactor,  and  had  no 
trust  in  respect  to  him.  It  came  over  Harry  like 
a  cloud  on  both  occasions  that  he  had  no  pro- 
fession, no  way  of  making  his  own  living ;  and 
that  a  state  of  dependence  like  that  in  which  he 
had  been  brought  up  could  not  continue.  But 
the  worst  time  in  the  world  to  break  the  link 
which  had  subsisted  so  long,  or  to  take  from  his 
aunt,  as  he  called  her,  the  companion  upon  whom 
she  leant  for  everything,  was  at  the  moment  when 
her  husband  was  gone,  and  there  was  nobody  else 
except  a  maid  to  take  care  of  her  helplessness. 
He  could  not  do  this  ;  he  was  as  much  bound  to 
her,  to  provide  for  all  her  wants,  and  see  that  she 
missed  nothing  of  her  wonted  comforts ;  nay, 
almost  more  than  if  he  had  been  really  her  son. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  his  easy  nature,  the  light 
heart  which  goes  with  perfect  health,  great  sim- 
plicity of  mind,  and  a  thoroughly  generous  dis- 
position, young  Gordon  had  enough  of  uncertainty 
in  his  life  to  have  made  him  very  serious,  if  not 
unhappy.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was 
neither.  He  took  the  days  as  they  came,  as  only 
those  can  do  who  are  to  that  manner  born.  When 
he  thought  on  the  subject,  he  said  to  himself  that 
should  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  a  young 
feliow  of  his  age,  with  the  use  of  his  hands  and  a 
head  on  his  shoulders,   could  surely  find  some- 


tjo  A   Mouse  in  Bloonisbury. 

diiiig   to  do,  and  that  he  would  not  mind  what 
;t  was. 

This  was  very  easy  to  say,  and  Gordon  was 
not  at  all  aware  what  the  real  difficulties  are  in 
finding  something  to  do.  But  had  he  known 
better,  it  would  have  done  him  no  good  ;  and  his 
ignorance,  combined  as  it  was  with  constant 
occupations  of  one  kind  or  another,  was  a  kind  of 
bliss.  There  was  a  hope,  too,  in  his  mind,  that 
merely  being  in  England  would  mend  matters.  It 
must  open  some  mode  of  independence  for  him. 
Mrs.  Bristow  would  settle  somewhere,  buy  a 
'*  place,"  an  estate,  as  it  had  always  been  the 
dream  of  her  husband  to  do,  and  so  give  him 
occuoation.  Somethinof  would  comiC  of  it  that 
would  settle  the  question  for  him  ;  the  mere 
certainty  in  his  mind  of  this  cleared  away  all 
clouds,  and  made  the  natural  brightness  of  his 
temperature  more  assured  than  ever. 

This  young  man  had  no  education  to  speak  of. 
He  had  read  innumerable  books,  which  do  not 
count  for  very  much  in  that  way.  He  had,  how- 
ever, been  brought  up  in  what  was  supposed  "the 
best "  of  society,  and  he  had  the  advantage  of 
that,  which  is  no  small  advantage.  He  was  at 
his  ease  in  consequence,  wherever  he  went,  not 
supposing  that  any  one  looked  down  on  him,  or 
that  he  could  be  refused  admittance  anywhere. 
Ai  he  walked  back  with  his  heart  at  ease — full  of 
an  amused  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  Dora,  whom 
he  had  known  for  years,  and  who  had  been,  though 
he  had  never  till  to-day  seen  her,  a  sort  of  little 
playfellow  in  his  life — walking  westward  from  the 


A  House  in  Bloonisbury.  135 

seriousness  of  Bloomsbury,  through  the  long  line  oi 
Oxford  Street,  and  across  Hyde  Park  to  the  great 
hotel  in  which  Mrs.  Bristow  had  estabHshed  her- 
self, the  young  man,  though  he  had  not  a  penny, 
and  was  a  mere  colonial,  to  say  the  best  of  him, 
felt  himself  returning  to  a  more  congenial  atmo- 
sphere, the  region  of  ease  and  leisure,  and  beauti- 
ful surroundings,  to  which  he  had  been  born.  He 
had  not  any  feature  of  the  man  of  fashion,  yet 
he  belonged  instinctively  to  the  jeunesse  dor^e 
wherever  he  went.  He  went  along,  swinging  his 
cane,  with  a  relief  in  his  mind  to  be  delivered 
from  the  narrow  and  noisy  streets.  He  had  been 
accustomed  all  his  life  to  luxury,  though  of  a 
different  kind  from  that  of  London,  and  he  smiled 
at  the  primness  and  respectability  of  Bloomsbury 
by  instinct,  though  he  had  no  right  to  do  so.  He 
recognised  the  difference  of  the  traffic  in  Picca- 
dilly, and  distinguished  between  that  great 
thoroughfare  and  the  other  with  purely  intuitive 
discrimination.  Belgravia  was  narrow  and  formal 
to  the  Southerner,  but  yet  it  was  different.  All 
these  intuitions  were  in  him,  he  could  not  tell  how. 
He  went  back  to  his  aunt  with  the  pleasure  of 
having  something  to  say  which  he  knew  would 
please  her.  Dora,  as  has  been  said,  had  been 
their  secret  between  them  for  many  years.  He 
had  helped  to  think  of  toys  and  pretty  trifles  to 
send  her,  and  the  boxes  had  been  the  subject  of 
many  a  consultation,  calling  forth  tears  from  Mrs. 
Bristow,  but  pure  fun  to  the  young  man,  who 
thought  of  the  unknown  recipient  as  of  a  little 
sister  whom  he  had   never  seen.     He  meant  to 


138  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

please  the  kind  woman  who  had  been  a  mother  to 
him,  by  telling  her  about  Dora,  how  pretty  she 
was,  how  tall,  how  full  of  character,  delightful  and 
am.using  to  behold,  how  she  was  half  angry  with 
him  for  knowing  so  much  of  her,  half  pleased, 
how  she  flashed  from  fun  to  seriousness,  from 
kindness  to  quick  indignation,  and  on  the  whole 
disapproved  of  him,  but  only  in  a  way  that  was 
amusing,  that  he  was  not  afraid  of.  Thus  he 
went  in  cheerful,  and  intent  upon  making  the 
invalid  cheerful  too. 

A  hotel  is  a  hotel  all  the  world  over,  a  place 
essentially  vulgar,  commonplace,  venal,  the  tra- 
vesty of  a  human  home.  This  one,  however,  was 
as  stately  as  it  could  be,  with  a  certain  size  about 
the  building,  big  stairs,  big  rooms,  at  the  end  of 
one  of  which  he  found  his  patroness  lying,  in  an 
elaborate  dressing-gown,  on  a  large  sofa,  with  the 
vap'ue  fiofure  of  a  maid  floating^  about  in  the  semi- 
darkness.  The  London  sun  in  April  is  not  gener- 
allv  violent ;  but  all  the  blinds  were  down,  the  cur- 
tains  half  drawn  over  the  windows,  and  the  room 
so  deeply  shadowed  that  even  young  Gordon's 
sharp  eyes  coming  out  of  the  keen  daylight  did 
not  preserve  him  from  knocking  against  one  piece 
of  furniture  after  another  as  he  made  his  way  to 
the  patient's  side. 

"Well,  Harry  dear,  is  she  coming?"  a  faint 
voice  said. 

"  I  hope  so,  aunt.  She  was  sorry  to  know  you 
were  ill.  I  told  her  you  were  quite  used  to  being 
ill,  and  always  patient  over  it.  Are  things  going 
an)''  better  to-day  .'* " 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  139 

"They  will  never  be  better,  Harry." 

"  Don't  say  that.  They  have  been  worse  a 
great  many  times,  and  then  things  have  always 
come  round  a  little." 

"He  doesn't  believe  me,  Miller.  That  is  what 
comes  of  health  like  mine ;  nobody  will  believe 
that  I  am  worse  now  than  I  have  ever  been  before." 
Gordon  patted  the  thin  hand  that  lay  on  the  bed. 
He  had  heard  these  words  many  times,  and  he  was 
not  alarmed  by  them. 

"  This  lady  is  rather  a  character,"  he  said ; 
"she  will  amuse  you.  She  is  Scotch,  and  she  is 
rather  strong-minded,  and " 

"  I  never  could  bear  strong-minded  women," 
cried  the  patient  with  some  energy.  "  But  what 
do  I  care  whether  she  is  Scotch  or  Spanish,  or 
what  she  is  }  Besides  that,  she  has  helped  me 
already,  and  all  I  want  is  Dora.  Oh,  Harry,  did 
you  see  Dora  ? — my  Dora,  my  little  girl !  And  so 
tall,  and  so  well  grown,  and  so  sweet !  And  to 
think  that  I  cannot  have  her,  cannot  see  her,  now 
that  I  am  going  to  die ! " 

"Why  shouldn't  you  have  her?"  he  said  in 
his  calm  voice.  "Her  father  is  better ;  and  no 
man,  however  unreasonable,  would  prevent  her 
coming  to  see  her  own  relation.  You  don't  under- 
stand, dear  aunt.  You  won't  believe  that  people 
are  all  very  like  each  other,  not  so  cruel  and  hard- 
hearted as  you  suppose.  You  would  not  be  unkind 
to  a  sick  person,  why  should  he  ?  " 

"Oh,  it's  different — very  different!"  the  sick 
woman  said. 

"Why  should  it  be  different?     A  quarrel  that 


140  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

is  a  dozen  years  old  could  never  be  so  bitter  as 
that" 

"  It  is  you  who  don't  understand.  I  did  him 
harm — oh,  such  harm !  Never,  never  could  he 
forgive  me !  I  never  want  him  to  hear  my  name. 
And  to  ask  Dora  from  him — oh  no,  no !  Don't 
do  it,  Harry — not  if  I  was  at  my  last  breath  ! " 

"  If  you  ever  did  him  harm  as  you  say — 
though  I  don't  believe  you  ever  did  any  one  harm 
— that  is  why  you  cannot  forgive  him.  Aunt, 
you  may  be  sure  he  has  forgiven  you." 

"  I — I — forgive  .•*  Oh,  never,  never  had  I  any- 
thing to  forgive — never!    I — oh  if  you  only  knew  ! " 

"  I  wouldn't  say  anything  to  excite  her,  Mr. 
Harry,"  said  the  maid.  "  She  isn't  so  well, 
really  ;  she's  very  bad,  as  true  as  can  be.  I've 
sent  for  the  doctor." 

"  Yes,  tell  him  ! "  cried  the  poor  lady  eagerly  ; 
"  tell  him  that  you  have  never  seen  me  so  ill. 
Tell  him,  Miller,  that  I'm  very  bad,  and  going  to 
die ! " 

"We'll  wait  and  hear  what  the  doctor  says, 
ma'am,"  said  the  maid  cautiously. 

"  But  Dora,  Harry — oh,  bring  her,  bring  her ! 
How  am  I  to  die  without  my  Dora  ?  Oh,  bring 
her!  Ask  this  lady — I  don't  mind  her  being 
strong-minded  or  anything,  if  she  will  bring  my 
child.  Harry,  you  must  steal  her  away,  if  he  will 
not  let  her  come.  I  have  a  right  to  her.  It  is — 
it  is  her  duty  to  come  to  me  when  I  am  going  to 
die  I " 

*'  Don't  excite  her,  sir,  for  goodness'  sake ; 
promise  anything,"  whispered  the  maid. 


A  House  in  Blootnsbury.  141 

"I  will,  aunt.  I'll  run  away  with  her.  I'll 
have  a  carriage  with  a  couple  of  ruffians  to  wait 
round  the  corner,  and  I'll  throw  something  over 
her  head  to  stifle  her  cries,  and  then  we'll  carry 
her  away." 

"It  isn't  any  laughing  matter,"  she  said,  re- 
covering her  composure  a  little.  "If  you  only 
knew,  Harry !  But  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't  tell  you 
— or  any  one.  Oh,  Harry,  my  poor  boy,  you'll 
find  out  a  great  many  things  afterwards,  and  per- 
haps you'll  blame  me.  I  know  you'll  blame  me. 
But  remember  I  was  always  fond  of  you,  and 
always  kind  to  you  all  the  same.  You  won't 
forget  that,  however  badly  you  may  think  of  me. 
Oh,  Harry,  my  dear,  my  dear  1 " 

**  Dear  aunt,  as  if  there  could  ever  be  any 
question  of  blam.e  from  me  to  you ! "  he  said, 
kissing  her  hand. 

"  But  there  will  be  a  question.  Everybody 
will  blame  me,  and  you  will  be  obliged  to  do  it 
too,  though  it  goes  against  your  kind  heart.  I 
seem  to  see  everything,  and  feel  what's  wrong, 
and  yet  not  be  able  to  help  it  I've  always  been 
like  that,"  she  said,  sobbing.  "Whatever  I  did, 
I've  alwavs  known  it  would  come  to  harm  ;  but 
I've  never  been  able  to  stop  it,  to  do  different. 
I've  done  so  many,  many  things!  Oh,  if  I  could 
go  back  and  begin  different  from  the  very  first! 
But  I  shouldn't.  I  am  just  as  helpless  now  as 
then.  And  I  know  just  how  you  will  look,  Harry, 
and  try  not  to  believe,  and  try  not  to  say  any- 
thing against  me " 

"If  you  don't  keep  quiet,  ma'am,  I'll  have  to 


142  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

go  and  leave  you !  and  a  nurse  is  what  you  will 
get — a  nurse  out  of  the  hospital,  as  will  stand  no 
nonsense." 

"Oh,  Miller,  just  one  word!    Harry,  promise 
me  you'll  think  of  what  I  said,  and  that  you  will 

not  hlame " 

"  Never,"  he  said,  rising  from  her  side.  "  I 
acquit  you  from  this  moment,  aunt.  You  can 
never  do  anything  that  will  be  evil  in  my  eyes. 
But  is  not  the  room  too  dark,  and  don't  you  mean 
to  have  any  lunch.?  A  little  light  and  a  little 
cudet,  don't  you  think,  Miller.?  No.?  Well,  I 
suppose  you  know  best,  but  you'll  see  that  is 
what  the  doctor  will  order.  I'm  going  to  get 
mine,  anyhow,  for  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  hunter. 
Blame  you.?  Is  it  likely?"  he  said,  stooping  to 
kiss  her. 

Notwithstanding  his  affectionate  fidelity,  he 
was  glad  to  be  free  of  the  darkened  room  and 
oppressive  atmosphere  and  troubled  colloquy. 
To  return  to  ordinary  daylight  and  life  was  a 
relief  to  him.  But  he  had  no  very  serious 
thoughts,  either  about  the  appeal  she  had  made 
to  him  or  her  condition.  He  had  known  her  as 
ill  and  as  hysterical  before.  When  she  was  ill 
she  was  often  emotional,  miserable,  fond  of  refer-  / 
ring  to  mysterious  errors  in  her  past.  Harry ' 
thought  he  knew  very  well  what  these  errors ' 
were.  He  knew  her  like  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
as  the  French  say.  He  knew  the  sort  of  things 
she  would  be  likely  to  do,  foolish  things,  incon- 
siderate, done  in  a  hurry — done,  very  likely,  as 
she  said,  with  a  full  knowledge  that  they  ought 


A  House  in  Bloom  saury.  143 

not  to  be  done,  yet  that  she  could  not  help  it, 
Poor  little  aunt !  he  could  well  believe  in  any  sort 
of  silly  thing,  heedless,  and  yet  not  altogether 
heedless  either,  disapproved  of  in  her  mind  even 
while  she  did  it.  Our  children  know  us  better 
than  any  other  spectators  know  us.  They  know 
the  very  moods  in  which  we  are  likely  to  do 
wrong.  What  a  good  thing  it  is  that  with  that 
they  love  us  all  the  same,  more  or  less,  as  the  case 
may  be !  And  that  their  eyes,  though  so  terribly 
clear-sighted,  are  indulgent  too ;  or,  if  not  indul- 
gent, yet  are  ruled  by  the  use  and  wont,  the  habit 
of  us,  and  of  accepting  us,  whatever  we  may  be. 
Young  Gordon  knew  exactly,  or  thought  he  knew, 
what  sort  of  foolish  things  she  might  have  done, 
or  even  yet  might  be  going  to  do.  Her  con- 
science was  evidently  very  keen  about  this  Mr. 
Mannering,  this  sister's  husband,  as  he  appeared 
to  be  ;  perhaps  she  had  made  mischief,  not  mean- 
ing it  and  yet  half  meaning  it,  between  him  and 
his  wife,  and  could  not  forgive  herself,  or  hope  to 
be  forgiven.  Her  own  husband  had  been  a  grave 
man,  very  loving  to  her,  yet  very  serious  with 
her,  and  he  knew  that  there  had  never  been  men- 
tion of  Dora  between  these  two.  Once,  he  re- 
membered, his  guardian  had  seen  the  box  ready 
to  be  despatched,  and  had  asked  no  questions, 
but  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  he  would  have 
pushed  it  out  of  the  way  with  his  foot.  Perhaps 
he  had  disapproved  of  these  feeble  attempts  to 
make  up  to  the  sister's  child  for  harm  done  to  her 
mother.  Perhaps  he  had  felt  that  the  wrong  was 
unforgiveable,  v/hatever  it  was.     He  had  taken  it 


144  -^  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

for  granted  that  after  his  death  his  wife  v/ould  go 
home ;  and  Harry  remembered  a  wistful  strange 
look  which  he  cast  upon  her  when  he  was  dying. 
But  the  young  man  gave  himself  a  little  shake  to 
throw  off  these  indications  of  a  secret  which  he 
did  not  know.  His  nature,  as  had  been  said,  was 
averse  to  secrets  ;  he  refused  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  a  mystery.  Everything  in  which  he  was 
concerned  Vvas  honest  and  open  as  the  day.  He 
did  not  dwell  on  the  fact  that  he  had  a  mystery 
connected  with  himself,  and  was  in  the  curious 
circumstance  of  having  a  mother  whom  he  did 
not  know.  It  was  very  odd,  he  admitted,  when 
he  thought  of  it ;  but  as  he  spent  his  life  by  the 
side  of  a  woman  who  was  in  all  respects  exactly 
like  his  mother  to  him,  perhaps  it  is  not  so 
wonderful  that  his  mind  strayed  seldom  to  that 
thought.  He  shook  everything  off  as  he  went 
downstairs,  and  sat  down  to  luncheon  with  the 
m.ost  hearty  and  healthy  appetite  in  the  world 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

'  Dora,"  said  Mr.  Mannering,  half  raising  his 
head  ffom  the  large  folio  which  had  come  from 
the  old  book  dealer  during  his  illness,  and  which, 
in  these  days  of  his  slow  convalescence,  had 
occupied  much  of  his  time.  After  he  had  spoken 
that  word  he  remained  silent  for  some  time,  his 
head  slightly  raised,  his  shoulders  bent  over  the 
big  book.  Then  he  repeated  **  Dora "  again. 
**  Do  you  think,"  he  said,  "  you  could  carry  one  of 
these  volumes  as  far  as  Fiddler's,  and  ask  if  he 
would  take  it  back  ?  " 

•'  Take  it  back ! "  Dora  cried  in  surprise. 

**  You  can  tell  him  that  I  do  not  find  it  as  in- 
teresting as  I  expected — but  no ;  for  that  might 
do  it  harm,  and  it  is  very  interesting.  You  might 
say  our  shelves  are  all  filled  up  with  big  books, 
and  that  I  have  really  no  room  for  it  at  present, 
which,"  he  added,  looking  anxiouslyup  into  her  face, 
'*  is  quite  true  ;  for,  you  remember,  when  I  was  so 
foolish  as  to  order  it,  we  asked  ourselves  how  it 
would  be  possible  to  find  a  place  for  it  ?  But  no, 
no,"  he  said,  "these  are  inventions,  and  I  see  your 
surprise  in  your  face  that  I  should  send  you  with 
a  message  that  is  not  genuine.  It  is  true  enough, 
you  know,  that  I  am  much  slackened  in  the  work 
I  wanted  this  book  for.  I  am  slackened  in  every- 
thing. I  doubt  if  I  can  take  up  any  piece  of  work 
(MS)  ^0 


146  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

again  to  do  any  good.  I'm  old,  you  see,  to  have 
such  a  long  illness,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  almost 
apologetically ;  **  and,  unless  it  had  been  with  an 
idea  of  work,  I  never  could  have  had  any  justifi- 
cation in  ordering  such  an  expensive  book  as 
this." 

"You  never  used  to  think  of  that,  father," 
Dora  said. 

•'  No,  I  never  used  to  think  of  that ;  but  I 
ought  to  have  done  so.  I'm  afraid  I've  been 
very  extravagant.  I  could  always  have  got  it, 
and  consulted  it  as  much  as  I  pleased  at  the 
Museum.  It  is  a  ridiculous  craze  I  have  had  for 
having  the  books  in  my  own  possession.  Many 
men  cannot  understand  it.  Williamson,  for 
instance.  He  says :  'In  your  place  I  would 
never  buy  a  book.  Why,  you  have  the  finest 
library  in  the  world  at  your  disposal.'  And  it's 
quite  true.  There  could  not  be  a  more  ridiculous 
extravagance  on  my  part,  and  pride,  I  suppose  to 
be  able  to  say  I  had  it." 

"  I  don't  think  that's  the  case  at  all,"  cried 
Dora.  "  What  do  you  care  for,  father,  except 
your  library  ?  You  never  go  anywhere,  you  have 
no  amusements  like  other  people.  You  don't 
go  into  society,  or  go  abroad,  or — anything  that 
the  other  people  do." 

'*  That  is  true  enough,"  he  said,  with  a  little 
gleam  of  pleasure.  Then,  suddenly  taking  her 
hand  as  she  stood  beside  him  :  "My  poor  child, 
you  say  that  quite  simply,  without  thinking  what 
a  terrible  accusation  it  would  be  if  it  Vv'ent  on, — a 
sacrifice  of  your  young  life  to  my  old  one,  and 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  147 

forgetfulness  of  all  a  girl's  tastes  and  wishes. 
We'll  try  to  put  that  right  at  least,  Dora,"  he 
said,  with  a  slight  quiver  in  his  lip,  "in  the  future 
' — if  there  is  any  future  for  me." 

"  Father  1"  she  said  indignantly,  "as  if  I 
didn't  like  the  books,  and  was  not  more  proud 
of  your  work  that  you  are  doing " 

"And  which  never  comes  to  anything,"  he 
interjected,  sadly  shaking  his  head. 

" than  of  anything  else  in  the  world!     I 

am  very  happy  as  I  am.  I  have  no  tastes  or 
pleasures  but  what  are  yours.  I  never  have 
wanted  anything  that  you  did  not  get  for  me. 
You  should  see,"  cried  Dora,  with  a  laugh, 
"  what  Janie  and  Molly  think  downstairs.  They 
think  me  a  princess  at  the  least,  with  nothing  to 
do,  and  all  my  fine  clothes  !  " 

"Janie  and  Molly!"  he  said, — "Janie  and 
Molly!  And  these  are  all  that  my  girl  has  to 
compare  herself  with — the  landlady's  orphan 
granddaughters  !  You  children  make  your  arrows 
very  sharp  without  knowing  it.  But  it  shall  be 
so  no  more.  Dora,  more  than  ever  I  want  you  to 
go  to  Fiddler's ;  but  you  shall  tell  him  what  is  the 
simple  truth — that  I  have  had  a  long  illness, 
which  has  been  very  expensive,  and  that  I  cannot 
l.ifford  any  more  expensive  books.  He  might 
r^en,  indeed,  be  disposed  to  buy  back  some  that 
^J7e  have.  That  is  one  thing,"  he  added,  with 
more  animation,  "all  the  books  are  really  worth 
their  price.  I  have  always  thought  they  would  be 
something  for  you,  whether  you  sold  them  or 
kept  them,  when  I  am  gone.     Do  you  think  you 


148  A  House  in  Bloomshury. 

cuuld  carry  one  of  them  as  far  as  Fiddler's,  Dora  ? 
They  are  in  such  excellent  condition,  and  it  would 
show  him  no  harm  had  come  to  them.  One  may 
carry  a  book  anywhere,  even  a  young  lady  may. 
And  it  is  not  so  very  heavy." 

"It  is  no  weight  at  all,"  cried  Dora,  who 
never  did  anything  by  halves.  "  A  litde  too  big 
for  my  pocket,  father  ;  but  I  could  carry  it  any- 
where. As  if  I  minded  carrying  a  book,  or  even 
a  parcel  I  I  like  it — it  looks  as  if  one  had  really 
something  to  do." 

She  went  out  a  few  minutes  after,  lightly 
with  great  energy  and  animation,  carrying  under 
one  arm  the  big  book  as  if  it  had  been  a  feather- 
weight. It  was  a  fine  afternoon,  and  the  big 
trees  in  the  Square  were  full  of  the  rustle  and 
breath  of  life — life  as  vigorous  as  if  their  foliage 
waved  in  the  heart  of  the  country  and  not  in 
Bloomsbury.  There  had  been  showers  in  the 
morning  ;  but  now  the  sun  shone  warm,  and  as  it 
edged  towards  the  west  sent  long  rays  down  the 
cross  streets,  making  them  into  openings  of  pure 
light,  and  dazzling  the  eyes  of  the  passers-by. 
Dora  was  caught  in  this  illumination  at  every 
street  corner,  and  turned  her  face  to  it  as  she 
crossed  the  opening,  not  afraid,  for  either  eyes  or 
complexion,  of  that  glow  "angry  and  brave". 
The  great  folio,  with  its  worn  corners  and  its 
tarnished  gilding,  rather  added  to  the  effect  of 
her  tall,  slim,  young  figure,  strong  as  health  and 
youth  could  make  it,  with  limbs  a  little  too  long, 
and  joints  a  little  too  pronounced,  as  belonged  to 
her  age.     She  carried  her  head  lightly  as  a  flower, 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  149 

her  step  was  free  and  light ;  she  looked,  as  she 
said,  "as  if  she  had  something  to  do,"  and  was 
wholly  capable  of  doing  it,  which  is  a  grace  the 
more  added,  not  unusually  in  these  days,  to  the 
other  graces  of  early  life  in  the  feminine  subject. 
But  it  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  carry  a  large  folio 
under  your  arm.  After  even  a  limited  stretch  of 
road,  the  lamb  is  apt  to  become  a  sheep  :  and  to 
shift  such  a  cumbrous  volume  from  one  arm  to 
another  is  not  an  easy  matter  either,  especially 
while  walking  along  the  streets.  Dora  held  on 
her  way  as  long  as  she  could,  till  her  wrist  was 
like  to  break,  and  her  shoulder  to  come  out  of  its 
socket.  Neither  she  nor  her  father  had  in  the 
kast  realised  what  the  burden  was.  Then  she 
turned  it  over  with  difficulty  in  both  arms,  and 
transferred  it  to  the  other  side,  speedily  reducing 
the  second  arm  to  a  similar  condition,  while  the 
first  had  as  yet  barely  recovered. 

It  is  not  a  very  long  way  from  the  corner  of 
the  Square  to  those  delightful  old  passages  full 
of  old  book-shops,  which  had  been  the  favourite 
pasturage  ot  Mr.  Mannering,  and  where  Dora  had 
so  often  accompanied  her  father.  On  ordinary 
occasions  she  thought  the  distance  to  Fiddler's  no 
more  than  a  few  steps,  but  to-day  it  seemed  miles 
long.  And  she  was  too  proud  to  give  in,  or  to 
go  into  a  shop  to  rest,  while  it  did  not  seem  safe 
to  trust  a  precious  book,  and  one  that  she  was 
going  to  give  back  to  the  dealer,  to  a  passing  boy. 
She  toiled  on  accordingly,  making  but  slow  pro- 
gress, and  very  much  subdued  by  her  task,  her 
cheeks  flushed,  and  the  tears  in  her  eyes  only  kept 


150  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

back  by  pride,  when  she  suddenly  met  walking 
quickly  along,  skimming  the  pavement  with  his 
light  tread,  the  young  man  who  had  so  wounded 
and  paralysed  her  in  Miss  Bethune's  room,  whom 
she  had  seen  then  only  for  the  first  time,  but  who 
had  claimed  her  so  cheerfully  by  her  Christian 
name  as  an  old  friend. 

She  saw  him  before  he  saw  her,  and  her  first 
thought  was  the  quick  involuntary  one,  that  here 
was  succour  coming  towards  her  ;  but  the  second 
was  not  so  cheerful.  The  second  was,  that  this 
stranger  would  think  it  his  duty  to  help  her;  that 
he  would  conceive  criticisms,  even  if  he  did  not 
utter  them,  as  to  the  mistake  of  entrusting  her 
with  a  burden  she  was  not  equal  to  ;  that  he 
would  assume  more  and  more  familiarity,  perhaps 
treat  her  altogether  as  a  little  girl — talk  again  of 
the  toys  he  had  helped  to  choose,  and  all  those 
injurious  revolting  particulars  which  had  filled  her 
with  so  much  indignation  on  their  previous  meet- 
ing. The  sudden  rush  and  encounter  of  these 
thoughts  distracting  her  mind  when  her  body  had 
need  of  all  its  support,  made  Dora's  limbs  so 
tremble,  and  the  light  so  go  out  of  her  eyes,  that 
she  found  herself  all  at  once  unable  to  carry  on 
her  straight  course,  and  aw^oke  to  the  humiliating 
fact  that  she  had  stumbled  to  the  support  of  the 
nearest  area  railing,  that  the  book  had  slipped 
from  under  her  tired  arm,  and  that  she  was  stand- 
ing there,  very  near  crying,  holding  it  up  between 
the  rail  and  her  knee. 

"Why,  Miss  Dora!"  cried  that  young  man. 
He  would  have  passed,  had  it  not  been  for  that 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  151 

deplorable  exhibition  of  weakness.  But  when 
his  eye  caught  the  half-ridiculous,  v/holly  over- 
whelming misery  of  the  slipping  book,  the  knee 
put  forth  to  save  it,  the  slim  figure  bending  over 
it,  he  was  beside  her  in  a  moment.  "  Give  it  to 
me,"  he  cried,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  and 
taking  it  from  her  as  if  it  had  been  a  feather. 
Well,  she  had  herself  said  it  was  a  feather  at  first. 

Dora,  relieved,  shook  her  tired  arms, 
straightened  her  figure,  and  raised  her  head  ;  with 
all  her  pride  coming  back. 

"  Oh,  please  never  mind.  I  had  only  got  it 
out  of  balance.  I  am  quite,  quite  able  to  carry 
it,"  she  cried. 

"Are  you  going  far?  And  will  you  let  me 
walk  with  you?  It  was  indeed  to  see  you  I  was 
going — not  without  a  commission." 

"  To  see  me }  " 

The  drooping  head  was  thrown  back  with  a 
pride  that  was  haughty  and  almost  scornful.  A 
princess  could  not  have  treated  a  rash  intruder 
more  completely  de  hmit  en  bas.  "  To  me  !  what 
could  you  have  to  say  to  me  ?  "  the  girl  seemed  to 
say,  in  the  tremendous  superiority  of  her  sixteen 
years. 

The  young  man  laughed  a  little — one  is  not 
very  wise  at  five  and  twenty  on  the  subject  of 
girls,  yet  he  had  experience  enough  to  be  amused 
by  these  remnants  of  the  child  in  this  half-devel- 
oped maiden.  "  You  are  going  this  way  ?  "  he 
said,  turning  in  the  direction  in  which  she  had 
been  going.  "Then  let  me  tell  you  while  we 
walk      Miss  Dora,  you  must  remember  this  is 


152  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

not  all  presumption  or  intrusion  on  my  side.  1 
come  from  a  lady  who  has  a  right  to  send  you  a 
message." 

"I  did  not  say  you  were  intrusive,"  cried  Dora, 
blushing;  for  shame. 

"  You  only  looked  it,"  said  young  Gordon ; 
"  but  you  know  that  lady  is  my  aunt  too — at 
least,  I  have  always  called  her  aunt,  for  many, 
many  years." 

"Ought  I  to  call  her  aunt?"  Dora  said.  "I 
suppose  so  indeed,  if  she  is  my  mother's  sister." 

"  Certainly  you  should,  and  you  have  a  right ; 
but  I  only  because  she  allows  me,  because  they 
wished  it,  to  make  me  feel  no  stranger  in  the 
house.  My  poor  dear  aunt  is  very  ill — worse, 
they  say,  than  she  has  ever  been  before." 

"  111?"  Dora  seemed  to  find  no  words  except 
these  interjections  that  she  could  say. 

"  I  hope  perhaps  they  may  be  deceived.  The 
doctors  don't  know^  her  constitution.  I  think  I 
have  seen  her  just  as  bad  and  come  quite  round 
again.  But  even  Miller  is  frightened  :  she  may 
be  worse  than  I  think,  and  she  has  the  greatest, 
the  most  anxious  desire  to  see  you,  as  she  says, 
before  she  dies." 

"  Dies  ?  "  cried  Dora.  "  But  how  can  she  die 
when  she  has  only  just  come  home  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  feel,  too,"  cried  the  young 
man,  with  eagerness.  "  But  perhaps,"  he  added, 
"it  is  no  real  reason  ;  for  doesn't  it  often  happen 
that  people  break  down  just  at  the  moment  when 
they  come  in  sight  of  what  they  have  wished  for 
for  years  and  years  ?  " 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  153 

**  I  don't  know,"  said  Dora,  recovering  her 
courage.  "  I  have  not  heard  of  things  so  dread- 
ful as  that.  I  can't  imagine  that  it  could  be  per- 
mitted to  be ;  for  things  don't  happen  just  by 
chance,  do  they.'*  They  are,"  she  added  quite 
inconclusively,  "as  father  says,  all  in  the  day's 
work." 

"  I  don't  know  either,"  said  young  Gordon  ; 
"  but  very  cruel  things  do  happen.  However, 
there  is  nothing  in  the  world  she  wishes  for  so 
much  as  you.  Will  you  come  to  her  ?  I  am  sure 
that  you  have  never  been  out  of  her  mind  for 
years.  She  used  to  talk  to  me  about  you.  It  was 
our  secret  between  us  two.  I  think  that  was  the 
chief  thing  that  made  her  take  to  me  as  she  did, 
that  she  might  have  some  one  to  speak  to  about 
Dora.  I  used  to  wonder  what  you  were  at  first, — 
an  idol,  or  a  prodigy,  or  a  princess." 

"  You  must  have  been  rather  disgusted  when 
you  found  I  was  only  a  girl,"  Dora  cried,  in  spite 
of  herself. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  discriminative  gaze, 
not  uncritical,  yet  full  of  warm  light  that  seemed 
to  linger  and  brighten  somehow  upon  her,  and 
which,  though  Dora  was  looking  straight  before 
her,  without  a  glance  to  the  right  or  left,  or  any 
possibility  of  catching  his  eye,  she  perceived, 
though  without  knowing  how. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  little  embarrassed  laugh, 
"quite  the  reverse,  and  always  hoping  that  one 
day  we  might  be  friends." 

Dora  made  no  reply.  For  one  thing  they  had 
now  come  (somehow  the  walk  went  much  fastefp 


154  ^  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

much  more  easily,  when  there  was  no  big  book  to 
carry)  to  the  passage  leading  to  Holborn,  a  narrow 
lane  paved  with  big  flags,  and  with  dull  shops,  prin- 
cipally book-shops,  on  either  side,  where  Fiddler, 
the  eminent  old  bookseller  and  collector,  lived. 
Her  mind  had  begun  to  be  occupied  by  the 
question  how  to  shake  this  young  man  off  and 
discharge  her  commission,  which  was  not  an  easy 
one.  She  hardly  heard  what  he  last  said.  She 
said  to  him  hastily,  "  Please  give  me  back  the 
book,  this  is  where  I  am  going,"  holding  out  her 
hands  for  it.  She  added,  "Thank  you  very 
much,"  with  formality,  but  yet  not  without 
warmth. 

"  Mayn't  I  carry  it  in  ?  "  He  saw  by  her  face 
that  this  request  was  distasteful,  and  hastened  to 
add,  "I'll  wait  for  you  outside ;  there  are 
quantities  of  books  to  look  at  in  the  windows," 
giving  it  back  to  her  without  a  word. 

Dora  was  scarcely  old  enough  to  appreciate  the 
courtesy  and  good  taste  of  his  action  altogether, 
but  she  was  pleased  and  relieved,  though  she 
hardly  knew  why.  She  went  into  the  shop,  very 
glad  to  deposit  it  upon  the  counter,  but  rather 
troubled  in  mind  as  to  how  she  was  to  accomplish 
her  mission,  as  she  waited  till  Mr.  Fiddler  was 
brought  to  her  from  the  depths  of  the  cavern  of 
books.  He  began  to  turn  over  the  book  with 
mechanical  interest,  thinking  it  something  brought 
to  him  to  sell,  then  woke  up,  and  said  sharply  : 
"  Why,  this  is  a  book  I  sent  to  Mr.  Mannering  of 
the  Museum  a  month  ago  ". 

"  Yes,"  said  Dora,  breathless,  "  and  I  am  Mr. 


A  House  in  Bloo7nsbiiry.  155 

Mannering's  daughter.  He  has  been  very  ill, 
and  he  wishes  me  to  ask  if  you  would  be  so  good 
as  to  take  it  back.  It  is  not  likely  to  be  of  so 
much  use  to  him  as  he  thought.  It  is  not  quite 
what  he  expected  it  to  be." 

"Not  what  he  expected  it  to  be?  It  is  an 
extremely  fine  copy,  in  perfect  condition,  and  I've 
been  on  the  outlook  for  it  to  him  for  the  past 
year." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Dora,  speaking  like  a 
bookman's  daughter,  "even  I  can  see  it  is  a  fine 
example,  and  my  father  would  like  to  keep  it. 
But — but — he  has  had  a  long  illness,  and  it  has 
been  very  expensive,  and  he  might  not  be  able  to 
pay  for  it  for  a  long  time.  He  would  be  glad  if 
you  would  be  so  very  obliging  as  to  take  it  back." 

Then  Mr.  Fiddler  began  to  look  blank.  He 
told  Dora  that  two  or  three  people  had  been  after 
the  book,  knowing  what  a  chance  it  was  to  get  a 
specimen  of  that  edition  in  such  a  perfect  state, 
and  how  he  had  shut  his  ears  to  all  fascinations, 
and  kept  it  for  Mr.  Mannering.  Mr.  Mannering 
had  indeed  ordered  the  book.  It  was  not  a  book 
that  could  be  picked  up  from  any  ordinary  collec- 
tion. It  was  one,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  which  he 
himself  would  not  have  thought  of  buying  on 
speculation,  had  it  not  been  for  a  customer  like 
Mr.  Mannering.  Probably  it  might  lie  for  years 
on  his  hands,  before  he  should  have  another 
opportunity  of  disposing  of  it.  These  arguments 
much  intimidated  Dora,  who  saw,  but  had  not  the 
courage  to  call  his  attention  to,  the  discrepancy 
between  the  two  or  three  people  who  had  wanted 


156  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

it,    and    the  unlikelihood  of  any  one  wanting    it 
again. 

The  conclusion  was,  however,  that  Mr.  Fiddler 
politely,  but  firmly,  declined  to  take  the  book 
back.  He  had  every  confidence  in  Mr.  Man- 
nering  of  the  Museum.  He  had  not  the  sliohtest 
doubt  of  being  paid.  The  smile,  with  which  he 
assured  her  of  this,  compensated  the  girl,  who  was 
so  little  more  than  a  child,  for  the  refusal  of  her 
request.  Of  course  Mr.  Manneringof  the  Museum 
would  pay,  of  course  everybody  had  confidence  in 
him  After  her  father's  own  depressed  looks  and 
anxiety,  it  comforted  Dora's  heart  to  make  sure 
in  this  way  that  nobody  outside  shared  these 
fears.  She  put  out  her  arms,  disappointed,  yet 
relieved,  to  take  back  the  big  book  again. 

"  Have  you  left  it  behind  you  1 "  cried  young 
Gordon,  who,  lingering  at  the  window  outside, 
without  the  slightest  sense  of  honour,  had  listened 
eagerly  and  heard  a  portion  of  the  colloquy  within. 

"Mr.  Fiddler  will  not  take  it  back.  He  says 
papa  will  pay  him  sooner  or  later.  He  is  going 
to  send  it  It  is  no  matter,"  Dora  said,  with  a 
little  wave  of  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  let  me  carry  it  back,"  cried  the  young 
man,  with  a  sudden  dive  into  his  pocket,  and 
evident  intention  in  some  rude  colonial  way  of 
solving  the  question  of  the  payment  there  and 
then. 

Dora  drew  herself  up  to  the  height  of  seven 
feet  at  least  in  her  shoes.  She  waved  him  back 
from  Mr.  Fiddler's  door  with  a  large  gesture. 

•*  You  may  have  known  me  for  a  long  time," 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  157 

she  said,  "and  you  called  me  Dora,  though  I 
think  it  is  a  Hberty ;  but  I  don't  know  you, 
not  even  your  name." 

"  My  name  is  Harry  Gordon,"  he  said,  with 
something  between  amusement  and  deference,  yet 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

Dora  looked  at  him  very  gravely  from  head 
to  foot,  making  as  it  were  a  rlsume  of  him  and 
the  situation.  Then  she  gave  forth  her  judgment 
reflectively,  as  of  a  thing  which  she  had  much 
studied.  "  It  is  not  an  ugly  name,"  she  said, 
with  a  partially  approving  nod  of  her  head. 


CHAPTER  XIV, 

"  No,  Mannering,"  said  Dr.  Roland,  *'  I  can't  sav 
that  you  may  go  back  to  the  Museum  in  a  week. 
I  don't  know  when  you  will  be  up  to  going.  I 
should  think  you  had  a  good  right  to  a  long  holi- 
day after  working  there  for  so  many  years." 

"  Not  so  many  years,"  said  Mr.  Mannering, 
"since  the  long  break  which  you  know  of, 
Roland." 

"  In  the  interest  of  science,"  cried  the  doctor. 

The  patient  shook  his  head  with  a  melancholy 
smile.     "  Not  in  my  own  at  least,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  it  is  unnecessary  to  discuss  that  ques- 
tion. Back  you  cannot  go,  my  good  fellow,  till 
you  have  recovered  your  strength  to  a  very  dif- 
ferent point  from  that  you  are  at  now.  You  can't 
go  till  after  you've  had  a  change.  At  present 
you're  nothing  but  a  bundle  of  tendencies  ready 
to  develop  into  anything  bad  that's  going.  That 
must  be  stopped  in  the  first  place,  and  you  must 
have  sea  air,  or  mountain  air,  or  country  air, 
whichever  you  fancy.  I  won't  be  dogmatic  about 
the  kind,  but  the  thing  you  must  have." 

"Impossible,  impossible,  impossible!"  Man- 
nering had  begun  to  cry  out  while  the  other  was 
speaking.  "  Why,  man,  you're  raving,"  he  said. 
"  I — so  accustomed  to  the  air  of  Bloomsbury,  and 
that  especially  fine  sort  which  is  to  be  had  at  the 

(158) 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  159 

Museum,  that  I  couldn't  breathe  any  other — I  to 
have  mountain  air  or  sea  air  or  country  air ! 
Nonsense !  Any  of  them  would  stifle  me  in  a 
couple  of  days." 

"  You  will  have  your  say,  of  course.  And 
you  are  a  great  scientific  gent,  I'm  aware;  but 
you  know  as  little  about  your  own  health  and 
what  it  wants  as  this  child  with  her  message. 
Well,  Janie,  what  is  it,  you  constant  bother? 
Mr.  Mannering  ?  Take  it  to  Miss  Bethune,  or 
wait  till  Miss  Dora  comes  back." 

'•  Please,  sir,  the  gentleman  is  waiting,  and  he 
says  he  won't  go  till  he's  pyed." 

"  You  little  ass  1 "  said  the  doctor.  "  What 
do  you  mean  by  coming  with  your  ridiculous 
stories  here  ?  " 

Mannering  stretched  out  his  thin  hand  and 
took  the  paper.  '*  You  see,"  he  said,  with  a  faint 
laugh,  '*how  right  I  was  when  I  said  I  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  your  changes  of  air.  It 
is  all  that  my  pay  will  do  to  settle  my  bills,  and 
no  overplus  for  such  vanities." 

*'  Nonsense,  Mannering !  The  money  will  be 
forthcoming  when  it  is  known  to  be  necessary." 

"From  what  quarter,  I  should  be  glad  to  hear.-* 
Do  you  think  the  Museum  will  grant  me  a  pre- 
mium for  staying  away,  for  being  of  no  use  ?  Not 
very  likely !  I  shall  not  be  left  in  the  lurch ;  they 
will  grant  me  three  months'  holiday,  or  even  six 
months'  holiday,  and  my  salary  as  usual.  But  we 
shall  have  to  reduce  our  expenses,  Dora  and  I, 
and  to  live  as  quietly  as  possible,  instead  of  going 
off  like  millionaires  to  revel  upon  fresh  tipples  of 


lOo  A  House  m  Bloomsbury, 

fancy  air.  No,  no,  nothing  of  the  kind.  And, 
besides,  I  don't  believe  in  them.  I  have  made 
myself,  as  the  French  say,  to  the  air  of  Blooms- 
bury,  and  in  that  I  shall  live  or  die." 

"  You  don't  speak  at  all,  my  dear  fellow,  like 
the  man  of  sense  you  are,"  said  the  doctor.  "For- 
tunately, I  can  carry  things  with  a  high  hand. 
When  I  open  my  mouth  let  no  patient  venture  to 
contradict.  You  are  going  away  to  the  country 
now.  If  you  don't  conform  to  my  rules,  I  am  not 
at  all  sure  I  may  not  go  further,  and  ordain  that 
there  is  to  be  no  work  for  six  months,  a  winter  on 
the  Riviera,  and  so  forth.  I  have  got  all  these 
pains  and  penalties  in  my  hand." 

"Better  and  better,"  said  Mannering,  "a 
palace  to  live  in,  and  a  chef  to  cook  for  us,  and 
our  dinner  off  gold  plate  every  day." 

*'  There  is  no  telling  what  I  may  do  if  you 
put  me  to  it,"  Dr.  Roland  said,  with  a  laugh. 
*'  But  seriously,  if  it  were  my  last  word,  you  must 
get  out  of  London.  Nothing  that  you  can  do  or 
say  will  save  you  from  that." 

'*  We  shall  see,"  said  Mr.  Mannering.  "  The 
sovereign  power  of  an  empty  purse  does  great 
wonders.  But  here  is  Dora  back,  and  without  the 
big  book,  I  am  glad  to  see.     What  did  Fiddler  say  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  afterwards,  father,"  said  Dora, 
developing  suddenly  a  little  proper  pride. 

"  Nonsense !  You  can  tell  me  now — that  he 
had  two  or  three  people  in  his  pocket  who  would 
have  bought  it  willingly  if  he  had  not  reserved  it 
for  me,  and  that  it  was  a  book  that  nobody 
wanted,  and  would  be  a  drug  on  his  hands." 


A  rioiise  in  Bloonisbury.  loi 

"Oh,  father,  how  clever  you  are!  That  was 
exactly  what  he  said  :  and  I  did  not  point  out 
that  he  was  contradicting  himself,  for  fear  it  should 
make  him  angry.  But  he  did  not  mind  me.  He 
said  he  could  trust  Mr.  Mannering  of  the  Museum; 
he  was  quite  sure  he  should  get  paid  ;  and  he  is 
sending  it  back  by  one  of  the  young  men,  because 
it  was  too  heavy  for  me." 

"  My  poor  little  girl !  I  ought  to  have  known 
it  would  be  too  heavy  for  you." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Dora.  *'  I  only 
carried  it  half  the  way.  It  was  getting  very  heavy 
indeed,  I  will  not  deny,  when  I  met  Mr.  Gordon, 
and  he  carried  it  for  me  to  Fiddler's  shop." 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Gordon  ?  "  said  Mr.  Mannering, 
raising  his  head. 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  Miss  Bethune's,"  said  Dora, 
with  something  of  hesitation  in  her  voice  which 
struck  her  father's  ear. 

Dr.  Roland  looked  very  straight  before  him, 
taking  care  to  make  no  comment,  and  not  to 
meet  Dora's  eye.  There  was  a  tacit  understand- 
ing between  them  now  on  several  subjects,  which 
the  invalid  felt  vaguely,  but  could  not  explain  to 
himself  Fortunately,  however,  it  had  not  even 
occurred  to  him  that  there  \vas  anything  more 
remarkable  in  the  fact  of  a  young  man,  met  at 
hazard,  carrying  Dora's  book  for  her,  than  if  the 
civility  had  been  shown  to  himself 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  it  is  painful  to  have  to 
make  you  aware  of  all  my  indiscretions,  Roland. 
What  has  a  man  to  do  with  rare  editions,  who 
has  a  small  income  and  an  only  child  like  mine  ? 


1 62  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

The  only  thing  is,"  he  added,  with  a  short  laugh, 
"  they  should  bring  their  price  when  they  come  to 
the  hammer, — that  has  always  been  my  consola- 
tion." 

"  They  are  not  coming  to  the  hammer  just 
yet,"  said  the  doctor.  He  possessed  himself 
furtively,  but  carelessly,  of  the  piece  of  paper  on 
the  table — the  bill  which,  as  Janie  said,  was 
wanted  by  a  gentleman  waiting  downstairs. 
"You  just  manage  to  get  over  this  thing,  Manner- 
ing,"  he  said,  in  an  ingratiating  tone,  "and  I'll 
promise  you  a  long  bill  of  health  and  plenty  of 
time  to  make  up  all  your  lost  way.  You  don't 
live  in  the  same  house  with  a  doctor  for  nothing. 
I  have  been  waiting  for  this  for  a  long  time.  I 
could  have  told  Vereker  exactly  what  course  it 
would  take  if  he  hadn't  been  an  ass,  as  all  these 
successful  men  are.  He  did  take  a  hint  or  two 
in  spite  of  himself;  for  a  profession  is  too  much 
for  a  man,  it  gives  a  certain  fictitious  sense  in 
some  cases,  even  when  he  is  an  ass.  Well, 
Mannering,  of  course  I  couldn't  prophesy  what 
the  end  would  be.  You  might  have  succumbed. 
With  your  habits,  I  thought  it  not  unlikely." 

"You  cold-blooded  practitioner!  And  what 
do  you  mean  by  my  habits  ^  I'm  not  a  toper  or 
a  reveller  bv  nio^ht." 

"  You  are  almost  worse.  You  are  a  man  of 
the  Museum,  drinking  in  bad  air  night  and  day, 
and  never  moving  from  your  books  when  you  can 
help  it.  It  was  ten  to  one  against  you  ;  but  some 
of  you  smoke-dried,  gas-scented  fellows  have  the 
devil's  own  constitution,  and  you've  pulled  through." 


A  House  in  Blooinsbiivy.  163 

"  Yes,"  said  Mannering,   holding  up  his  thin 

hand    to  the    hght,   and   thrusting   forth    a   long 

spindle-shank  of  a  leg,  "I've  pulled  through — as 

much  as  is  left  of  me.     It  isn't  a  great  deal  to 

^brag  of." 

"  Having  done  that,  with  proper  care  I  don't 

^see  why  you  shouldn't  have  a  long  spell  of  health 

before  you — as  much  health  as  a  man  can  expect 

who  despises  all  the  laws  of  nature — and  attain  a 

very  respectable  age  before  you  die." 

"Here's  promises!"  said  Mannering.  He 
paused  and  laughed,  and  then  added  in  a  lov/er 
tone :  "  Do  you  think  that's  so  very  desirable, 
after  all  ?  " 

"Most  men  like  it,"  said  the  doctor;  "or,  at 
least,  think  they  do.  And  for  you,  who  have 
Dora  to  think  of " 

"Yes,  there's  Dora,"  the  patient  said  as  if  to 
himself. 

"  That  being  the  case,  you  are  not  your  own 
property,  don't  you  see."*  You  have  got  to  take 
care  of  yourself,  whether  you  will  or  not.  You 
have  got  to  make  life  livable,  now  that  it's  handed 
back  to  you.  It's  a  responsibility,  like  another. 
Having  had  it  handed  back  to  you,  as  I  say,  and 
being  comparatively  a  young  man — what  are  you, 
fifty?" 

"  Thereabout ;  not  what  you  would  call  the 
flower  of  youth." 

"  But  a  very  practical,  not  disagreeable  age — 
good  for  a  great  deal  yet,  if  you  treat  it  fairly ; 
but,  mind  you,  capable  of  giving  you  a  great  deal  of 
annoyance,  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  if  you  don't." 


164  A  House  m  moomsoury. 

"  No  more  before  the  child,"  said  Mannering 
hastily.  "We  must  cut  our  coat  according  to 
our  cloth,  but  she  need  not  be  in  all  our  secrets. 
What !  turtle-soup  again  ?  Am  I  to  be  made  an 
alderman  of  in  spite  of  myself.-*  No  more  of 
this,  Hal,  if  you  love  m^e,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
gaunt  head  at  the  doctor,  who  was  already  dis- 
appearing downstairs. 

Dr.  Roland  turned  back  to  nod  encouragingly 
to  Dora,  and  to  say  :  "  All  right,  my  dear  ;  keep  it 
up !  "  But  his  countenance  changed  as  he  turned 
away  again,  and  when  he  had  knocked  and  been 
admitted  at  Miss  Bethune's  door,  it  was  with  a 
melancholy  face,  and  a  look  of  the  greatest  de- 
spondency, that  he  flung  himself  into  the  nearest 
chair. 

"  It  will  be  all  of  no  use,"  he  cried, — "of  no 
use,  if  we  can't  manage  means  and  possibilities  to 
pack  them  off  somewhere.  He  will  not  hear  of 
it!  Wants  to  go  back  to  the  Museum  next 
week — in  July  ! — and  to  go  on  in  Bloomsbury  all 
the  year,  as  if  he  had  not  been  within  a  straw's 
breadth  of  his  life." 

"  I  was  afraid  of  that,"  said  Miss  Bethune, 
shaking  her  head. 

"  He  ought  to  go  to  the  country  now,"  said 
the  doctor,  "then  to  the  sea,  and  before  the 
coming  on  of  winter  go  abroad.  That's  the  only 
programme  for  him.  He  ought  to  be  a  year 
away.  Then  he  might  come  back  to  the  Museum 
like  a  giant  refreshed,  and  probably  write  some 
book,  or  make  some  discovery,  or  do  some  scien- 
tific business,  that  would  crown  him  with  glory, 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  165 

and  cover  all  the  expenses ;  but  the  obstinate 
beast  will  not  see  it.  Upon  my  word!"  cried 
Dr.  Roland,  "  I  wish  there  could  be  made  a 
decree  that  only  women  should  have  the  big 
illnesses ;  they  have  such  faith  in  a  doctor's 
word,  and  such  a  scorn  of  possibilities  :  it  always 
does  them  good  to  order  them  something  that 
can't  be  done,  and  then  do  it  in  face  of  everything 
— that's  what  I  should  like  for  the  good  of  the 
race." 

"  I  can't  say  much  for  the  good  of  the  race," 
said  Miss  Bethune  ;  "  but  you'd  easily  find  some 
poor  wretch  of  a  woman  that  would  do  it  for  the 
sake  of  some  ungrateful  brute  of  a  man." 

"Ah,  we  haven't  come  to  that  yet,"  said  the 
doctor  regretfully ;  "  the  vicarious  principle  has 
not  gone  so  far.  If  it  had  I  daresay  there  would 
be  plenty  of  poor  wretches  ready  to  bear  their 
neighbours'  woes  for  a  consideration.  The  simple 
rules  of  supply  and  demand  would  be  enough  to 
provide  us  proxies  without  any  stronger  senti- 
ment :  but  philosophising  won't  do  us  any  good ; 
it  won't  coin  money,  or  if  it  could,  would  not  drop 
it  into  his  pocket,  which  after  all  is  the  chief 
difficulty.  He  is  not  to  be  taken  in  any  longer 
by  your  fictions  about  friendly  offerings  and  cheap 
purchases.  Here  is  a  bill  which  that  little  anaemic 
nuisance  Janie  brought  in,  with  word  that  a  gentle- 
man was  *  wyaiting '  for  the  payment." 

"  We'll  send  for  the  gentleman,  and  settle  it, ' 
said  Miss  Bethune  quietly,  "  and  then  it  can't 
come  up  to  shame  us  again." 

The  gentleman  sent  for  turned  up  slowly,  and 


1 66  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

came  in  with  reluctance,  keeping  his  face  as  much 
as  possible  averted.  He  was,  however,  too  easily 
recognisable  to  make  this  contrivance  available. 

"  Why,  Hesketh,  have  you  taken  service  with 
Fortnum  and  Mason  ?  "  the  doctor  cried. 

"I'm  in  a  trade  protection  office,  sir,"  said 
Hesketh.  "  I  collect  bills  for  parties."  He 
spoke  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  distant  corner, 
avoiding  as  much  as  possible  every  glance. 

"In  a  trade  protection  office?  And  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  Fortnum  and  Mason,  before 
even  the  season  is  over,  collect  their  bills  in  this 
way.'' 

"  They  don't  have  not  to  say  so  many 
customers  in  Bloomsbury,  sir,"  said  the  young 
man,  with  that  quickly-conceived  impudence 
which  is  so  powerful  a  weapon,  and  so  congenial 
to  his  race. 

"■  Confound  their  insolence !  I  have  a  good 
mind  to  go  myself  and  give  them  a  bit  of  my 
mind,"  cried  Dr.  Roland.  "  pioomsbury  has 
more  sense,  it  seems,  than  I  gave  it  credit  for, 
and  your  pampered  tradesman  more  impu- 
dence." 

"  I  would  just  do  that,"  said  Miss  Bethune. 
"  And  will  it  be  long  since  you  took  to  this  trade 
protection,  young  man  i* — for  Gilchrist  brought  me 
word  you  were  ill  in  your  bed  not  a  week  ago." 

"  A  man  can't  stay  in  bed,  when  'e  has  a  wife 
to  support,  and  with  no  'ealth  to  speak  of," 
Hesketh  replied,  with  a  little  bravado  ;  but  he 
was  very  pale,  and  wiped  the  unwholesome  dews 
from  his  forehead. 


A  House  in  Bloonisbury.  i6; 

"Ansemia,  body  and  soul,"  said  the  doctor  tc 
the  lady,  in  an  undertone. 

"You'll  come  to  his  grandfather  again  in  a 
moment,"  said  the  lady  to  the  doctor.  *'  Now, 
my  lad,  you  shall  just  listen  to  me.  Put  down 
this  moment  your  trade  protections,  and  all 
your  devices.  Did  you  not  hear,  by  Gilchrist, 
that  we  were  meaning  to  give  you  a  new  chance  ? 
Not  for  your  sake,  but  for  your  wife's,  though 
she  probably  is  just  tarred  with  the  same  stick. 
We  were  meaning  to  set  you  up  in  a  little  shop 
in  a  quiet  suburb." 

Here  the  young  fellow  made  a  grimace,  but 
recollected  himself,  and  said  no  word. 

"Eh!"  cried  Miss  Bethune,  "that  wouldn't 
serve  your  purposes,  my  fine  gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  never  said  so,"  said  the  young  man.  "  It's 
awfully  kind  of  you.  Still,  as  I've  got  a  place  on 
my  own  hook,  as  it  were — not  that  we  mightn't 
combine  the  two,  my  wife  and  I.  She  ain't  a  bad 
saleswoman,"  he  added,  with  condescension. 
'*  We  was  in  the  same  house  of  business  before 
we  was  married — not  that  beastly  old  shop  where 
they  do  nothing  but  take  away  the  young  gentle- 
men's and  young  ladies'  characters.  It's  as  true 
as  life  what  I  say.  Ask  any  one  that  has  ever 
been  there." 

"  Anaemia,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  to  the  doctor, 
aside,  "  would  not  be  proof  enough,  if  there  were 
facts  on  the  other  hand." 

"  1  always  mistrust  facts,"  the  doctor  replied. 

**  Here  is  your  money,"  she  resumed.  "  Write 
ir.e  OLii  the  receipt,  or  rather,  put  your  name  ;o  it. 


r68  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

Now  mind  this,  I  will  help  you  if  you're  meaning 
to  do  well ;  but  if  I  find  out  anything  wrong  in 
this,  or  hear  that  you're  in  bed  again  to-morrow, 
and  not  fit  to  lift  your  head " 

**  No  man  can  answer  for  his  health,  said 
young  Hesketh  solemnly.  '*  I  may  be  bad,  I 
may  be  dead  to-morrow,  for  anything  I  can  tell." 

*'  That  is  true." 

"  And  my  poor  wife  a  widder,  and  the  poor 
baby  not  born." 

"  In  these  circumstances,"  said  Dr.  Roland, 
"  we'll  forgive  her  for  what  wasn't  her  fault,  and 
look  after  her.  But  that's  not  likely,  unless  you 
are  fool  enough  to  let  yourself  be  run  over,  or 
something  of  that  sort,  going  out  from  here." 

"Which  I  won't,  sir,  if  I  can  help  it." 

**And  no  great  loss,  either,"  the  doctor  said 
in  his  undertone.  He  watched  the  payment 
grimly,  and  noticed  that  the  young  man's  hand 
shook  in  signing  the  receipt.  What  was  the 
meaning  of  it  '^  He  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
while  Hesketh's  steps,  quickening  as  he  went 
farther  off,  were  heard  going  downstairs  and  to- 
wards the  door.  "  I  wish  I  were  as  sure  that 
money  would  find  its  way  to  the  pockets  of 
Fortnum  and  Mason,  as  I  am  that  yonder  down- 
looking  hound  had  a  criminal  grandfather,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  there  is  the  receipt,  anyhow.  Will 
you  go  and  inquire  ?  " 

*'  To  what  good  ?  There  would  be  a  great 
fuss,  and  the  young  fool  would  get  into  prison 
probably  ;  whereas  we  may  still  hope  that  it  is  all 
right,  and  that  he  has  turned  over  a  new  leaf." 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  169 

"  I  should  not  be  content  without  being  at  the 
bottom  of  it,"  said  Miss  Bethune  ;  and  then,  after 
a  pause  :  "  There  is  another  thing.  The  lady 
from  South  America  that  was  here  has  been 
taken  ill,  Dr.  Roland." 

"Ah,  so!"  cried  the  doctor.  **  I  should  like 
to  go  and  see  her." 

"  You  are  not  wanted  to  go  and  see  her.  It 
is  I — which  you  will  be  surprised  at — that  is 
wanted,  or,  rather,  Dora  with  me.  I  have  had  an 
anxious  pleader  here,  imploring  me  by  all  that  I 
hold  dear.  You  will  say  that  is  not  much, 
doctor." 

"  I  will  say  nothing  of  the  kind.  But  I  have 
little  confidence  in  that  lady  from  South  America, 
or  her  young  man." 

"  The  young  man  is  just  as  fine  a  young 
fellow !  Doubt  as  you  like,  there  is  no  deceit 
about  him  ;  a  countenance  like  the  day,  and  eyes 
that  meet  you  fair,  look  at  him  as  you  please. 
Doctor,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  faltering  a  little,  "  I 
have  taken  a  great  notion  into  my  head  that  he 
may  turn  out  to  be  a  near  relation  of  my  own.'' 

"  A  relation  of  yours  .^ "  cried  Dr.  Roland, 
suppressing  a  whistle  of  astonishment.  **  My 
thoughts  were  going  a  very  different  way." 

"  I  know,  and  your  thoughts  are  justified. 
The  lady  did  not  conceal  that  she  was  Mrs. 
Mannering's  sister :  but  the  one  thing  does  not 
hinder  the  other." 

"It  would  be  a  very  curious  coincidence — 
stranger,  even,  than  usual." 

"  Everything  that's    strange   is   usual,"    cried 


170  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

Miss  Bethune  vehemently.  *'  It  is  we  that  have 
no  eyes  to  see." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  doctor,  who  loved  a 
paradox.  "  I  tell  you  what,"  he  added  briskly, 
"  let  me  go  and  see  this  lady.  I  am  very  sus- 
picious about  her.  I  should  like  to  make  her  out 
a  little  before  risking  it  for  Dora,  even  with  you." 

"  You  think,  perhaps,  you  would  make  it  out 
better  than  I  should,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  with 
some  scorn.  "  Well,  there  is  no  saying.  You 
would,  no  doubt,  make  out  what  is  the  matter 
with  her,  which  is  always  the  first  thing  that 
interests  you." 

"It  explains  most  things,  when  you  know 
how  to  read  it,"  the  doctor  said ;  but  in  this 
point  his  opponent  did  not  give  in  to  him,  it  is 
hardly  necessary  to  say.  She  was  very  much 
interested  about  Dora,  but  she  was  still  more  in- 
terested in  the  question  which  moved  her  own 
heart  so  deeply.  The  lady  from  South  America 
might  be  in  command  of  many  facts  on  that  point; 
and  prudence  seemed  to  argue  that  it  was  best  to 
see  and  understand  a  little  more  about  her  first, 
before  taking  Dora,  without  her  father's  know- 
ledge, to  a  stranger  who  made  such  a  claim  upon 
her. 

"  Though  if  it  is  her  mother's  sister,  I  don't 
know  who  could  have  a  stronger  claim  upon  her," 
said  Miss  Bethune. 

"  Provided  her  mother  had  a  sister,"  the 
doctor  said. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Miss  Bethune  set  out  accordingly,  without  saying 
anything  further,  to  see  the  invahd.  She  took 
nobody  into  her  confidence,  not  even  Gilchrist, 
who  had  much  offended  her  mistress  by  her  scepti- 
cism. Much  as  she  was  interested  in  every  un- 
usual chain  of  circumstances,  and  much  more  still 
in  anything  happening  to  Dora  Mannering,  there 
was  a  still  stronger  impulse  of  personal  feeling  in 
her  present  expedition.  It  had  gone  to  her  head 
like  wine  ;  her  eyes  shone,  and  there  was  a  nervous 
energy  in  every  line  of  her  tall  figure  in  its  middle- 
aged  boniness  and  hardness.  She  walked  quickly, 
pushing  her  way  forward  when  there  was  any  crowd 
with  an  unconscious  movement,  as  of  a  strong 
swimmer  dividing  the  waves.  Her  mind  was 
tracing  out  every  line  of  the  supposed  process  of 
events  known  to  herself  alone.  It  was  her  own 
story,  and  such  a  strange  one  as  occurs  seldom  in 
the  almost  endless  variety  of  strange  stories  that 
I  are  about  the  world — a  story  of  secret  marriage, 
'secret  birth,  and  sudden  overwhelming  calamity. 
She  had  as  a  young  woman  given  herself  foolishly 
and  hastily  to  an  adventurer :  for  she  was  an 
heiress,  if  she  continued  to  please  an  old  uncle 
who  had  her  fate  in  his  hands.  The  news  of  the 
unexpected  approach  of  this  old  man  brought  the 
sudden  crisis.     The  husband,  who  had  been  near 

(171) 


172  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

her  in  the  profound  quiet  of  the  country,  fled, 
taking  with  him  the  child,  and  after  that  no  more. 
The  marriage  was  altogether  unknown,  except  to 
Gilchrist,  and  a  couple  of  old  servants  in  the  small 
secluded  country-house  where  the  strange  little 
tragedy  had  taken  place  ;  and  the  young  wife,  who 
had  never  borne  her  husband's  name,  came  to  life 
again  after  a  long  illness,  to  find  every  trace  of 
her  piteous  story,  and  of  the  fate  of  the  man  for 
whom  she  had  risked  so  much,  and  the  child 
whom  she  had  scarcely  seen,  obliterated.  The 
agony  through  which  she  had  lived  in  that  first 
period  of  dismay  and  despair,  the  wild  secret 
inquiries  set  on  foot  with  so  little  knowledge  of 
how  to  do  anything  of  the  kind,  chiefiy  by  means 
of  the  good  and  devoted  Gilchrist,  who,  however, 
knew  still  less  even  than  her  mistress  the  wav  to 
do  it — the  long,  monotonous  years  of  living  with 
the  old  uncle  to  whom  that  forlorn  young  woman 
in  her  secret  anguish  had  to  be  nurse  and  com- 
panion ;  the  dreadful  freedom  afterwards,  when 
the  fortune  was  hers,  and  the  liberty  so  long 
desired — but  still  no  clue,  no  knowledoe  whether 
the  child  on  whom  she  had  set  her  passionate 
heart  existed  or  not.  The  hero,  the  husband, 
existed  no  lono^er  in  her  imaq-ination.  That  first 
year  of  furtive  fatal  intercourse  had  revealed  him 
in  his  true  colours  as  an  adventurer,  whose  aim 
had  been  her  fortune.  But  why  had  he  not  re- 
vealed himself  when  that  fortune  was  secure  ? 
Why  had  he  not  brought  back  the  child  who 
would  have  secured  his  hold  over  her  whatever 
had  happened  ?     These  questions  had  been  dis- 


A  House  in  Bloornshiry.  173 

cussed  between  Miss  Bethune  and  her  maid,  till 
there  was  no  longer  any  contingency,  any  com- 
bination of  things  or  theories  possible,  which  had 
not  been  torn  to  pieces  between  them,  with 
reasonings  sometimes  as  acute  as  mother's  wit 
could  make  them,  sometimes  as  foolish  as  ignor- 
ance and  inexperience  suggested. 

They  had  roamed  all  over  the  world  in  an 
anxious  quest  after  the  fugitives  who  had  dis- 
appeared so  completely  into  the  darkness.  What 
wind  drifted  them  to  Bloomsbury  it  would  be  too 
long  to  inquire.  The  wife  of  one  furtive  and 
troubled  year,  the  mother  of  one  anxious  but 
heavenly  week,  had  long,  long  ago  settled  into 
the  angular,  middle-aged  unmarried  lady  of  Mrs. 
Simcox's  first  floor.  She  had  dropped  all  her 
former  friends,  all  the  people  who  knew  about 
her.  And  those  people  who  once  knew  her  by 
her  Christian  name,  and  as  they  thought  every 
incident  in  her  life,  in  reality  knew  nothing,  not  a 
syllable  of  the  brief  romance  and  tragedy  which 
formed  its  centre.  She  had  developed,  they  all 
thouo^ht,  into  one  of  those  eccentrics  who  are  so 
often  to  be  found  in  the  loneliness  of  solitary  life, 
odd  as  were  all  the  Bethunes,  with  something 
added  that  was  especially  her  own.  By  intervals 
an  old  friend  would  appear  to  visit  her,  marvelling 
much  at  the  London  lodging  in  which  the  mistress 
of  more  than  one  old  comfortable  house  had 
chosen  to  bury  herself.  But  the  Bethunes  were 
all  queer,  these  visitors  said ;  there  was  a  bee  in 
their  bonnet,  there  was  a  screw  loose  somewhere. 
It  is  astonishing  the  number  of  Scotch  families  of 


174  -^  House  in  Bloornsbury, 

whom  this  is  said  to  account  for  everything  their 
descendants  may  think  or  do. 

This  was  the  woman  who  marched  along  the 
hot  July  streets  with  the  same  vibration  of  impulse 
and  energy  which  had  on  several  occasions  led  her 
half  over  the  world.  She  had  been  disappointed  a 
thousand  times,  but  never  given  up  hope;  and  each 
new  will-o'-the-wisp  which  had  led  her  astray  had 
been  welcomed  with  the  same  strong  confidence, 
the  same  ever-living  hope.  Few  of  them,  she  ac- 
knowledged to  herself  now,  had  possessed  half  the 
likelihood  of  this;  and  every  new  point  of  certitude 
grew  and  expanded  within  her  as  she  proceeded  on 
her  way.  The  same  age,  the  same  name  (more  or 
less),  a  likeness  which  Gilchrist,  fool  that  she  was, 
would  not  see  ;  and  then  the  story,  proving  every- 
thing of  the  mother  who  was  alive  but  unknown. 

Could  anything  be  more  certain  .-*  Miss 
Bethune's  progress  through  the  streets  was 
more  like  that  of  a  bird  on  the  wing,  with  that 
floating  movement  which  is  so  full  at  once  of 
strength  and  of  repose,  and  wings  ever  ready  for 
a  swift  coup  to  increase  the  impulse  and  clear  the 
way,  than  of  a  pedestrian  walking  along  a  hot  pave- 
ment. A  strange  coincidence !  Yes,  it  would  be  a 
•  very  strange  coincidence  if  her  own  very  unusual 
"story  and  that  of  the  poor  Mannerings  should 
thus  be  twined  together.  But  why  should  it  not 
be  so?  Truth  is  stranger  than  fiction.  The 
most  marvellous  combinations  happen  every  day. 
The  stranger  things  are,  the  more  likely  they 
are  to  happen.  This  was  what  she  kept  saying 
to  herself  as  she  hurried  upon  her  way. 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  175 

She  was  received  in  the  darkened  room,  in 
the  hot  atmosphere  perfumed  and  damped  by  the 
spray  of  some  essence,  where  at  first  Miss  Bethune 
felt  she  could  scarcely  breathe.  When  she  was 
brought  in,  in  the  gleam  of  light  made  by  the 
opened  door,  there  was  a  little  scream  of  eagerness 
from  the  bed  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  room, 
and  then  a  cry:  "But  Dora?  Where  is  Dora? 
It  is  Dora,  Dora,  I  want ! "  in  a  voice  of  disap- 
pointment and  irritation  close  to  tears. 

"  You  must  not  be  vexed  that  I  came  first  by 
myself,"  Miss  Bethune  said.  "To  bring  Dora 
without  her  father's  knowledge  is  a  strong  step." 

"  But  I  have  a  right — I  have  a  right!"  cried 
the  sick  woman.  "Nobody — not  even  he — could 
deny  me  a  sight  of  her.  I've  hungered  for  years 
for  a  sight  of  her,  and  now  that  I  am  free  I  am 
going  to  die." 

"  No,  no!  don't  say  that,"  said  Miss  Bethune. 
with  the  natural  instinct  of  denying  that  conclusion. 
"  You  must  not  let  your  heart  go  down,  for  that 
is  the  worst  of  all." 

"  It  is  perhaps  the  best,  too,"  said  the  patient. 
"What  could  I  have  done?  Always  longing  for 
her,  never  able  to  have  her  except  by  stealth, 
frightened  always  that  she  would  find  out,  or  that 
he  should  find  out.  Oh,  no,  it's  better  as  it  is. 
Now  I  can  provide  for  my  dear,  and  nobody  to 
say  a  word.  Now  I  can  show  her  how  I  love  her. 
And  she  will  not  judge  me.  A  child  like  that 
doesn't  judge.  She  will  learn  to  pity  her  poor, 
poor  — —  Oh,  why  didn't  you  bring  me  my 
Dora?     I  may  not  live  another  day." 


lyS  A  House  m  Bloomsbury. 

In  the  darkness,  to  which  her  eyes  gradually 
became  accustomed,  Miss  Bethune  consulted 
silently  with  a  look  the  attendant  by  the  bed ;  and 
receiving  from  her  the  slight,  scarcely  distinguish- 
able, answer  of  a  shake  of  the  head,  took  the 
sufferer's  hand,  and  pressed  it  in  her  own. 

"  I  will  bring  her,"  she  said,  "  to-night,  if  you 
wish  it,  or  to-morrow.  I  give  you  my  word.  If 
you  think  of  yourself  like  that,  whether  you  are 
right  or  not,  I  am  not  the  one  to  disappoint  you. 
To-night,  if  you  wish  it," 

"Oh,  to-night,  to-night!  I'll  surely  live  till 
to-night,"  the  poor  woman  cried. 

"  And  many  nights  more,  if  you  will  only  keep 
quite  quiet,  ma'am.  It  depends  upon  yourself," 
said  the  m.aid. 

"They  always  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Bristow, 
"  to  keep  quiet,  as  if  that  was  the  easiest  thing  to 
do.  I  might  get  up  and  walk  all  the  long  way  to 
see  my  child ;  but  to  be  quiet  without  her — that 
is  what  is  impossible — and  knowing  that  perhaps 
I  mav  never  see  her  aeain  !  " 

"You  shall — you  shall,"  said  Miss  Bethune 
soothingly.  "  But  you  have  a  child,  and  a  good 
child — a  son,  or  as  like  a  son  as  possible." 

"la  son  .<*  Oh,  no,  no — none  but  Dora !  No 
one  I  love  but  Dora."  The  poor  lady  paused 
then  with  a  sob,  and  said  in  a  changed  voice  : 
"You  mean  Harry  Gordon.-*  Oh,  it  is  easy  to 
see  you  are  not  a  mother.  He  is  very  good — oh, 
very  good.  He  was  adopted  by  Mr.  Bristow. 
Oh,"  she  cried,  with  a  long  crying  breath,  "  Mr. 
Bristow  ought  to  have  done  something  for  Harry. 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  177 

He  ought  to — I  always  said  so.  I  did  not  want 
to  have  everything  left  to  me." 

She  v/rung  her  thin  hands,  and  a  convulsive 
sob  came  out  of  the  darkness. 

"  Ma'am,"  said  the  maid,  "  I  must  send  this 
lady  away,  and  put  a  stop  to  everything,  if  you  get 
agitated  like  this." 

"  I'll  be  quite  calm,  Miller — quite  calm,"  the 
patient  cried,  putting  out  her  hand  and  clutching 
Miss  Bethune's  dress. 

*'  To  keep  her  calm  I  will  talk  to  her  of  this 
other  subject,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  with  an  injurecf 
tone  in  her  voice.  She  held  her  head  high, 
elevating  her  spare  figure,  as  if  in  disdain.  **  Let 
us  forget  Dora  for  the  moment,"  she  said,  "and 
speak  of  this  young  man  that  has  only  been  a  son 
to  you  for  the  most  of  his  life,  only  given  you 
his  affection  and  his  services  and  everything  a 
child  could  do — but  is  nothing,  of  course,  in  com- 
parison with  a  little  girl  you  know  nothing  about, 
who  is  your  niece  in  blood." 

"  Oh,  my  niece,  my  niece ! "  the  poor  lady 
murmured  under  her  breath. 

*'  Tell  me  something  about  this  Harry  Gordon; 
it  will  let  your  mind  down  from  the  more  exciting 
subject,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  still  with  great 
dignity,  as  if  of  an  offended  person.  "  He  has  lived 
with  you  for  years.     He  has  shared  your  secrets." 

**  I  have  talked  to  him  about  Dora,"  she 
faltered. 

*'  But  yet,"  said  the  stern  questioner,  more 
and  more  severely,  "  it  does  not  seem  you  have 
cared  anything  about  hiin  all  these  years } " 


178  A  House  in  Blooms  bury. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that !  I  have  always  been  fond 
of  him,  always — always !  He  will  never  say  1 
have  not  been  kind  to  him,"  the  invalid  cried. 

"  Kind?"  cried  Miss  Bethune,  with  an  indig- 
nation and  scorn  which  nothing  could  exceed. 
Then  she  added  more  gently,  but  with  still  the 
injured  tone  in  her  voice  :  "  Will  you  tell  me  some- 
'  thing  about  him  ?  It  will  calm  you  down.  I  take 
an  interest  in  the  young  man.  He  is  like  some- 
body I  once  knew,  and  his  name  recalls ~" 

"Perhaps  you  knew  his  father.'*"  said  Mrs. 
Bristow. 

"  Perhaps.  I  would  like  to  hear  more  par- 
ticulars.     He  tells  me  his  mother  is  livinfr." 

"  The  father  was  very  foolish  to  tell  him.  Mr. 
Bristow  always  said  so.  It  was  on  his  deathbed. 
I  suppose,"  cried  the  poor  lady,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
"that  on  your  deathbed  you  feel  that  you  must 
tell  everything.  Oh,  I've  been  silent,  silent,  so 
long !  I  feel  that  too.  She  is  not  a  mother  that 
it  would  ever  be  good  for  him  to  find.  Mr.  Bris- 
tow wished  him  never  to  come  back  to  England, 
only  for  that.  He  said  better  be  ignorant — better 
know  nothing." 

"  And  why  was  the  poor  mother  so  easily  con- 
demned }  " 

"You  would  be  shocked — you  an  unmarried 
lady — if  I  told  you  the  story.  She  left  him  just 
after  the  boy  was  born.  She  fell  from  one  degra- 
dation to  another.  He  sent  her  money  as  long  as 
he  could  keep  any  trace  of  her.     Poor,  poor  man  !  " 

"  And  his  friends  took  everything  for  gospel 
that  this  man  said  ?  " 


A  House  in  Bloomshury.  179 

"He  was  an  honest  man.  Why  should  he 
cell  Mr.  Bristow  a  lie  ?  I  said  it  was  to  be  kept 
from  poor  Harry.  It  would  only  make  him 
miserable.  But  there  was  no  doubt  about  the 
truth  of  it — oh,  none." 

"  I  tell  you,"  cried  Miss  Bethune,  "that  there 
is  every  doubt  of  it.  His  mother  was  a  poor  de- 
ceived girl,  that  was  abandoned,  deserted,  left  to 
bear  her  misery  as  she  could." 

"  Did  you  know  his  mother? "said  the  patient, 
showing  out  of  the  darkness  the  gleam  of  eyes 
widened  by  astonishment. 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  cried  Miss  Bethune.  "  I 
know  this,  that  the  marriage  was  in  secret,  and 
the  boy  was  born  in  secret;  and  while  she  was  ill 
and  weak  there  came  the  news  of  some  one  com- 
ing that  might  leave  her  penniless  ;  and  for  the 
sake  of  the  money,  the  wretched  money,  this  man 
took  the  child  up  in  his  arms  out  of  her  very  bed, 
and  carried  it  away." 

The  sick  woman  clutched  the  arm  of  the 
other,  who  sat  by  her  side,  tragic  and  passionate, 
the  words  coming  from  her  lips  like  sobs.  "  Oh, 
my  poor  lady,"  she  said,  "  if  that  is  your  story ! 
But  it  was  not  that.  My  husband,  Mr.  Bristow, 
knew.  He  knew  all  about  Gordon  from  the  be- 
ginning. It  was  no  secret  to  him.  He  did  not 
take  the  child  away  till  the  mother  had  gone,  till  he 
had  tried  every  way  to  find  her,  even  to  bring  her 
back.  He  was  a  merciful  man.  I  knew  him  too. 
Oh,  poor  woman,  poor  woman,  my  heart  breaks 
for  that  other  you  knew.  She  is  like  me,  she  is 
'rt'orse  off  than  me  :  but  the  one  vou  know  was 


i8o  A  House  in  Bloomshiry. 

not  Harry's  mother — oh,  no,  no — Harry's  mother! 
If  she  is  living  it  is — it  is — in  misery,  and  worse 
than  misery." 

"  He  said,"  uttered  a  hoarse  voice,  breathless, 
out  of  the  dimness,  which  nobody  could  have  re- 
cognised for  Miss  Bethune's,  "  that  you  said  there 
was  no  such  woman." 

"  I  did — to  comfort  him,  to  make  him  believe 
that  it  was  not  true." 

"  By  a  lie !  And  such  a  lie — a  shameful  lie, 
when  you  knew  so  different!  And  how  should 
any  one  believe  now  a  word  you  say  ? " 

"  Oh,  don't  let  her  say  such  things  to  me, 
Miller,  Miller ! "  cried  the  patient,  with  the  cry 
of  a  sick  child. 

"Madam,"  said  the  maid,  "she's  very  bad,  as 
you  see,  and  you're  making  her  every  minute 
worse.  You  can  see  it  yourself.  It's  my  duty 
to  ask  you  to  go  away." 

Miss  Bethune  rose  from  the  side  of  the  bed 
like  a  ghost,  tall  and  stern,  and  towering  over  the 
agitated,  weeping  woman  who  lay  back  on  the 
white  pillows,  holding  out  supplicating  hands  and 
panting  for  breath.  She  stood  for  a  moment  look- 
ing as  if  she  would  have  taken  her  by  the  throat. 
Then  she  gave  herself  a  little  shake,  and  turned 
away. 

Once  more  the  invalid  clutched  at  her  dress 
and  drew  her  back.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  have 
mercy  upon  me !  Don't  go  away — don't  go 
away !  I  will  bear  anything.  Say  what  you 
like,  but  bring  me  Dora — bring  me  Dora — before 
I  die." 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  i8i 

"Why   should   I    bring   you    Dora?     Me   to 

whom  nobody  brings What  is  it  to  me  if  you 

live  or  if  you  die  ?  " 

"Oh,  bring  me  Dora — bring  me  Dora!"  the 
poor  woman  wailed,  holding  fast  by  her  visitor's 
dress.  She  flung  herself  half  out  of  the  bed, 
drawing  towards  her  with  all  her  little  force  the 
unwilling,  resisting  figure.  "  Oh,  for  the  sake  of 
all  you  wish  for  yourself,  bring  me  Dora — Dora 
— before  I  die!" 

"What  have  you  left  me  to  wish  for?"  cried 
the  other  woman  ;  and  she  drew  her  skirts  out  of 
the  patient's  grasp. 

No  more  different  being   from  her  who  had 

entered  an  hour  before  by  the  long  passages  and 

staircases  of  the  great  hotel  could  have  been  than 

she    who    now    repassed    through    them,   looking 

neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left — a  woman  like 

a  straight   line  of  motion  and   energy,  as  strong 

and  stiff  as  iron,  with  expression  banished  from 

her  face,  and  elasticity  from  her  figure.     She  went 

back  by  the  same  streets  she  had  come  by,  making 

her  way  straight  through  the  crowd,  which  seemed 

to  yield  before  the  strength  of  passion  and  pain 

that  was  in  her.    There  was  a  singing  in  her  ears, 

and  a  buzzing  in  her  head,  and  her  heart  was  in 

her  breast  as  if  it  had  been  turned  to  stone.     Oh, 

she  was  not  at  her  first  shock  of  disappointment 

and  despair.     She  had  experienced  it  before;  but 

never,  she  thought,  in  such  terrible  sort  as  now. 

She  had  so  wrapped  herself  in  this  dream,  which 

had  been  suggested   to  her  by  nothing  but  her 

own  heart,  what  she  thought  her  instinct,  a  sudden 


1 82  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

flash  of  divination,  the  voice  of  nature.  She  had 
felt  sure  of  it  the  first  glimpse  she  had  of  him, 
before  he  had  even  told  her  his  name  She  had 
been  sure  that  this  time  it  was  the  voice  of  nature, 
that  intuition  of  a  mother  which  could  not  be  de- 
ceived. So  many  likenesses  seemed  to  meet  in 
Harry  Gordon's  face,  so  many  circumstances  to 
combine  in  establishing  the  likelihood,  at  least, 
that  this  was  he.  South  America,  the  very  ideal 
place  for  an  adventurer,  and  the  strange  fact  that 
he  had  a  mother  living  whom  he  did  not  know. 
A  mother  living !  These  words  made  a  thrill  of 
passion,  of  opposition,  of  unmoved  and  immovable 
conviction,  rush  through  all  her  veins.  A  mother 
living!  Who  could  that  be  but  she?  What 
would  such  a  man  care — a  man  who  had  abandoned 
his  wife  at  the  moment  of  a  woman's  greatest 
weakness,  and  taken  her  child  from  her  when  she 
was  helpless  to  resist  him — for  the  ruin  of  her 
reputation  after,  for  fixing  upon  her,  among  those 
who  knew  her  not,  the  character  of  a  profligate  } 
He  who  had  done  the  first,  why  should  he  hesitate 
to  say  the  last }  The  one  thing  cost  him  trouble, 
the  other  none.  It  was  easier  to  believe  that  than 
to  give  up  what  she  concluded  with  certainty  was 
her  last  hope. 

Gilchrist,  who  had  seen  her  coming,  rushed 
downstairs  to  open  the  door  for  her.  But  Gil- 
christ, at  this  moment,  was  an  enemy,  the  last 
person  in  the  world  in  whom  her  mistress  would 
confide ;  Gilchrist,  who  had  never  believed  in  it, 
had  refused  to  see  the  likeness,  or  to  encourage 
any   delusion.     She   was    blind   to   the  woman's 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  183 

imploring  looks,  her  breathless  "  Oh,  mem ! " 
which  was  more  than  any  question,  and  brushed 
past  her  with  the  same  iron  rigidity  of  pose,  which 
had  taken  all  softness  from  her  natural  angularity. 
She  walked  straight  into  her  bedroom,  where  she 
took  off  her  bonnet  before  the  glass,  without 
awaiting  Gilchrist's  ministrations,  nay,  putting 
them  aside  with  a  quick  impatient  gesture.  Then 
she  went  to  her  sitting-room,  and  drew  her  chair 
into  her  favourite  position  near  the  window,  and 
took  up  the  paper  and  began  to  read  it  with  every 
appearance  of  intense  interest.  She  had  read  it 
through  every  word,  as  is  the  practice  of  lonely 
ladies,  before  she  v/ent  out :  and  she  was  pro- 
foundly conscious  now  of  Gilchrist  following  her 
about,  hovering  behind  her,  and  more  anxious 
than  words  can  say.  Miss  Bethune  was  an  hour 
or  more  occupied  about  that  newspaper,  of  which 
she  did  not  see  a  single  word,  and  then  she  rose 
suddenly  to  her  feet. 

"  I  cannot  do  it — I  cannot  do  it ! "  she  cried. 
"  The  woman  has  no  claim  on  me.  Most  likely 
she's  nothing  but  a  fool,  that  has  spoilt  everything 
for  herself,  and  more.  Maybe  it  will  not  be  good 
for  Dora.  But  I  cannot  do  it — I  cannot  do  it. 
It's  too  strong  for  me.  Whatever  comes  of  it, 
she  must  see  her  child — she  must  see  her  child 
before  she  passes  away  and  is  no  more  seen. 
And  oh,  I  wish — I  wish  that  it  was  not  her,  but 
me!" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Dora  passed  the  long  evening  of  that  day  in 
her  father's  room.  It  was  one  of  those  days  in 
which  the  sun  seems  to  refuse  to  set,  the  daylight 
to  depart.  It  rolled  out  in  afternoon  sunshine, 
prolonged  as  it  seemed  for  half  a  year's  time, 
showing  no  inclination  to  wane.  When  the  sun 
at  last  went  down,  there  ensued  a  long  interval 
of  day  without  it,  and  slowly,  slowly,  the  shades 
of  twilight  came  on.  Mr.  Mannering  had  been 
very  quiet  all  the  afternoon.  He  had  sat  brood- 
ing, unwilling  to  speak.  The  big  book  came  back 
with  Mr.  Fiddler's  compliments,  and  was  replaced 
upon  his  table,  where  he  sat  sometimes  turning 
over  the  pages,  not  reading,  doing  nothing. 
There  are  few  things  more  terrible  to  a  looker-on 
than  this  silence,  this  self-absorption,  taking  no 
notice  of  anvthing;  outside  of  him,  of  a  convales- 
cent.  The  attitude  of  despondency,  the  bowed 
head,  the  curved  shoulders,  are  bad  enough  in 
themselves  :  but  nothing  is  so  dreadful  as  the 
silence,  the  preoccupation  with  nothing,  the  eyes 
fixed  on  a  page  which  is  not  read,  or  a  horizon  in 
which  nothing  is  visible.  Dora  sat  by  him  with 
a  book,  too,  in  which  she  was  interested,  which  is 
perhaps  the  easiest  way  of  bearing  this  ;  but  the 
book  ended  before  the  afternoon  did,  and  then 
she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch  him  and  won- 

(184) 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  185 

der  what  he  was  thinking  of — whether  his  mind 
was  roving  over  lands  unknown  to  her,  whether 
it  was  about  the  Museum  he  was  thinking,  or  the 
doctor's  orders,  or  the  bills,  two  or  three  of  which 
had  by  misadventure  fallen  into  his  hands.  What 
was  it  ?  He  remained  in  the  same  attitude,  quite 
still  and  steady,  not  moving  a  finger.  Sometimes 
she  hoped  he  might  have  fallen  asleep ;  sometimes 
she  addressed  to  him  a  faltering  question,  to  which 
he  ansv/ered  Yes  or  No.  He  was  not  impatient 
when  she  spoke  to  him.  He  replied  to  her  in 
monosyllables,  which  are  almost  worse  than  silence. 
And  Dora  durst  not  protest,  could  not  upbraid 
him  with  that  dreadful  silence,  as  an  older  person 
might  have  done.  "Oh,  father,  talk  to  me  a 
little ! "  she  once  cried  in  her  despair  ;  but  he  said 
gently  that  he  had  nothing  to  talk  about,  and 
silenced  the  girl.  He  had  taken  the  various 
meals  and  refreshments  that  were  ordered  for 
him,  when  they  came,  with  something  that  was 
half  a  smile  and  half  a  look  of  disgust ;  and  this 
was  the  final  exaspei*ation  to  Dora. 

"Oh,  father!  when  you  know  that  you  must 
take  it — that  it  is  the  only  way  of  getting  well 
again." 

"  I  am  taking  it,"  he  said,  with  that  twist  of 
the  lip  at  every  spoonful  which  betrayed  how 
distasteful  it  was. 

This  is  hard  to  bear  for  the  most  experienced 
of  nurses,  and  what  should  it  be  for  a  girl  of  six- 
teen ?  She  clasped  her  hands  together  in  her  im- 
patience to  keep  herself  down.  And  then  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Gilchrist  appeared, 


1 86  A  House  in  Blooinsbury. 

begging  that  Miss  Dora  would  put  on  her  hat  and 
go  out  for  a  walk  with  Miss  Bethune. 

"  I'll  come  and  sit  with  my  work  in  a  corner, 
and  be  there  if  he  wants  anything." 

Mr.  Mannering  did  not  seem  to  take  any  notice, 
but  he  heard  the  whisper  at  the  door. 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  any  one  sitting  with 
me.      I  am  quite  able  to  ring  if  I  want  anything." 

"But,  father,  I  don't  want  to  go  out,"  said  Dora 

"  I  want  you  to  go  out,"  he  said  peremptorily. 
*'  It  is  not  proper  that  you  should  be  shut  up  here 
all  day." 

**  Let  me  light  the  candles,  then,  father  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  any  candles.  I  am  not  doing 
anything.    There  is  plenty  of  light  for  what  I  want." 

Oh,  what  despair  it  was  to  have  to  do  with  a 
man  who  would  not  be  shaken,  who  would  take 
his  own  way  and  no  other  !  If  he  would  but  have 
read  a  novel,  as  Dora  did — if  he  would  but  return 
to  the  study  of  his  big  book,  which  was  the  custom 
of  his  life.  Dora  felt  that  it  was  almost  wicked  to 
leave  him  :  but  what  could  she  do,  while  he  sat 
there  absorbed  in  his  thoughts,  which  she  could 
not  even  divine  what  they  were  about } 

To  go  out  into  the  cool  evening  was  a  relief 
to  her  poor  little  exasperated  temper  and  troubled 
mind.  The  air  was  sweet  and  fresh,  even  in 
Bloomsbury ;  the  trees  waved  and  rustled  softly 
against  the  blue  sky ;  there  was  a  young  moon 
somewhere,  a  white  speck  in  the  blue,  though  the 
light  of  day  was  not  yet  gone ;  the  voices  were 
softened  and  almost  musical  in  the  evening  air, 
and  it  was  so  good  to  be  out  of  doors,  to  be  re- 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  i8; 

moved  from  the  close  controlling  atmosphere  of 
unaccustomed  trouble.  "Out  of  sight,  out  of 
mind,"  people  say.  It  was  very  far  from  being 
that ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  but  the  natural  im- 
patience, the  mere  contrariety,  that  had  made  the 
girl  ready  to  cry  with  a  sense  of  the  intolerable 
which  now  was  softened  and  subdued,  allowing 
love  and  pity  to  come  back.  She  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  her  father  as  she  went  along  the 
street. 

"  Do  you  think  he  looks  any  better,  Miss 
Bethune  ?  Do  you  think  he  will  soon  be  able  to 
get  out?  Do  you  think  the  doctor  will  let  him 
return  soon  to  the  Museum."*  He  loves  the 
Museum  better  than  anything.  He  would  have 
more  chance  to  get  well  if  he  might  go  back." 

"All  that  must  be  decided  by  time,  Dora — 
time  and  the  doctor,  who,  though  we  scoff  at  him 
sometimes,  knows  better,  after  all,  than  you  or  me. 
But  I  want  you  to  think  a  little  of  the  poor  lady 
you  are  going  to  see.'* 

"What  am  I  going  to  see?  Oh,  that  lady?  I 
don't  know  if  father  will  wish  me  to  see  her.  Oh, 
I  did  not  know  what  it  was  you  wanted  of  me.  I 
cannot  go  against  father.  Miss  Bethune,  when  he 
is  ill  and  does  not  know." 

"You  will  just  trust  to  another  than  your  father 
for  once  in  your  life,  Dora.  If  you  think  I  am 
not  a  friend  to  your  father,  and  one  that  would 
consider  him  in  all  things " 

The  girl  walked  on  silently,  reluctantly,  for 
some  time  without  speaking,  with  sometimes  a 
half  pause,  as  if  she  would   have  turned  back 


i88  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

Then  she  answered  in  a  low  voice,  still  not  very 
willingly  :  "  I  know  you  are  a  friend  ". 

*'  You  do  not  put  much  heart  in  it,"  said  Miss 
Bethune,  with  a  laugh.  The  most  magnanimous 
person,  when  conscious  of  having  been  very  help- 
ful and  a  truly  good  friend  at  his  or  her  personal 
expense  to  another,  may  be  pardoned  a  sense  of 
humour,  partially  bitter,  in  the  grudging  acknow- 
ledgment of  ignorance.  Then  she  added  more 
gravely  :  "  When  your  father  knows — and  he  shall 
know  in  time — where  I  am  taking  you,  he  will 
approve ;  whatever  his  feelings  may  be,  he  will 
tell  you  it  was  right  and  your  duty  :  of  that  I  am 
as  sure  as  that  I  am  living,  Dora." 

"  Because  she  is  my  aunt  ?  An  aunt  is  not 
such  a  very  tender  relation,  Miss  Bethune.  In 
books  they  are  often  very  cold  comforters,  not 
kind  to  girls  that  are  poor.  I  suppose,"  said 
Dora,  after  a  little  pause,  ''that  I  would  be  called 

poor.-* 

"You  are  just  nothing,  you  foolish  little  thing! 
You  have  no  character  of  your  own ;  you  are  youi 
father's  daughter,  and  no  more." 

•*  I  don't  wish  to  be  anything  more,"  cried 
Dora,  with  her  foolish  young  head  held  high. 

"And  this  poor  woman,"  said  Miss  Bethune, 
exasperated,  "  will  not  live  long  enough  to  be  a 
friend  to  any  one — so  you  need  not  be  afraid 
either  of  her  being  too  tender  or  unkind.  She 
has  come  back,  poor  thing,  after  long  years  spent 
out  of  her  own  country,  to  die." 

**  To  die  ? "  the  girl  echoed  in  a  horrified  tone. 

"  Just  that,  and  nothing  less  or  more  " 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  189 

Dora  walked  on  by  Miss  Bethune's  side  for 
some  time  in  silence.  There  was  a  long,  very 
long  walk  through  the  streets  before  they  reached 
the  coolness  and  freshness  of  the  Park.  She  .said 
nothing  for  a  long  time,  until  they  had  arrived  at 
the  Serpentine,  which — veiled  in  shadows  and 
mists  of  night,  with  the  stars  reflected  in  it,  and 
the  big  buildings  in  the  distance  standing  up 
solemnly,  half  seen,  yet  with  gleams  of  lamps  and 
light  all  over  them,  beyond,  and  apparently  among 
the  trees — has  a  sort  of  splendour  and  reality,  like 
a  great  natural  river  flowing  between  its  banks. 
She  paused  there  for  a  moment,  and  asked,  with 
a  quick  drawing  of  her  breath  :  "  Is  it  some  one — 
who  is  dying — that  you  are  taking  me  to  see  "i  " 

"  Yes,  Dora ;  and  next  to  your  father,  your 
nearest  relation  in  the  world." 

"  I  thought  at  one  time  that  he  was  going  to 
die,  Miss  Bethune." 

**  So  did  we  all,  Dora.' 

*'  And  I  was  very  much  afraid — oh,  not  only 
heartbroken,  but  afraid.  I  thought  he  would 
suffer  so,  in  himself,"  she  said  very  low,  "and  to 
leave  me." 

"  They  do  not,"  said  Miss  Bethune  with  great 
solemnity,  as  if  not  of  any  individual,  but  of  a 
mysterious  class  of  people.  "  They  are  delivered  ; 
anxious  though  they  may  have  been,  they  are 
anxious  no  more  ;  though  their  hearts  would  have 
broken  to  part  with  you  a  little  while  before,  it  is 
no  longer  so ;  they  are  delivered.  It's  a  very 
solemn  thing,"  she  went  on,  with  something  like  a 
sob  in  her  voice ;    "but  it's  comforting,  at  least  to 


190  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

the  like  of  me.  Their  spirits  are  changed,  they 
are  separated ;  there  are  other  things  before  them 
greater  than  what  they  leave  behind." 

"Oh."  cried  the  girl,  "I  should  not  like  to 
think  of  that :    if  father  had  ceased  to  think  of  me 

even  before " 

"  It  is  comforting  to  me,"  said  Miss  Bethune, 
'*  because  I  am  of  those  that  are  going,  and  you, 
Dora,  are  of  those  that  are  staying.  I'm  glad  to 
think  that  the  silver  chain  will  be  loosed  and  the 
golden  bowl  broken — all  the  links  that  bind  us  to 
the  earth,  and  all  the  cares  about  what  is  to 
happen  after." 

"  Have  you  cares  about  what  is  to  happen 
after  }  "  cried  Dora.  "  Father  has,  for  he  has  me  ; 
but  you,  Miss  Bethune  ?  " 

Dora  never  forgot,  or  thought  she  would 
never  forget,  the  look  that  v/as  cast  upon  her. 
"And  I,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  "have  not  even 
you,  have  nobody  belonging  to  me.  Well,"  she 
said,  going  on  v/ith  a  heavy  long-drawn  breath, 
"  it  looks  as  if  it  were  true." 

This  was  the  girl's  first  discovery  of  what 
youth  is  generally  so  long  in  finding  out,  that  in 
her  heedlessness  and  unconscious  conviction  that 
what  related  to  herself  was  the  most  important  in 
the  world,  and  what  befel  an  elderly  neighbour 
of  so  much  less  consequence,  she  had  done,  or 
at  least  said,  a  cruel  thing.  But  she  did  not 
know  how  to  mend  matters,  and  so  went  on  by 
her  friend's  side  dumb,  confusedly  trying  to  enter 
into,  now  that  it  was  too  late,  the  sombre  com- 
plications of  another's  thought      Nothing  more 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  191 

was  said  till  they  were  close  to  the  great  hotel, 
which  shone  out  with  its  many  windows  luminous 
upon  the  soft  background  of  the  night.  Then 
Miss  Bethune  put  her  hand  almost  harshly  upon 
Dora's  arm. 

"You  will  remember,  Dora,"  she  said,  "that 
the  person  we  are  going  to  see  is  a  dying  person, 
and  in  all  the  world  it  is  agreed  that  where  a 
dying  person  is  he  or  she  is  the  chief  person,  and 
to  be  considered  above  all.  It  is,  maybe,  a  super- 
stition, but  it  is  so  allowed.  Their  wants  and 
their  wishes  go  before  all ;  and  the  queen  herself, 
if  she  were  coming  into  that  chamber,  would  bow 
to  it  like  all  the  rest:  and  so  must  you.  It  is, 
perhaps,  not  quite  sincere,  for  why  should  a 
woman  be  more  thought  of  because  she  is  going 
to  die  ?  That  is  not  a  quality,  you  will  say  :  but 
yet  it's  a  superstition,  and  approved  of  by  all 
the  civilised  world." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Bethune,"  cried  Dora,  "  I  know 
that  I  deserve  that  you  should  say  this  to  me : 
but  yet " 

Her  companion  made  no  reply,  but  led  the 
way  up  the  great  stairs. 

The  room  was  not  so  dark  as  before,  though 
it  was  night ;  a  number  of  candles  were  shining 
in  the  farther  corner  near  the  bed,  and  the  pale 
face  on  the  pillow,  the  nostrils  dark  and  widely 
opened  with  the  panting  breath,  was  in  full  light, 
turned  towards  the  door.  A  nurse  in  her  white 
apron  and  cap  was  near  the  bed,  beside  a  maid 
whose  anxious  face  was  strangely  contrasted  with 
the  calm  of  the  professional  person.     These  ac- 


1^2  A  House  171  Bloomsbury, 

cessories  Dora's  quick  glance  took  in  at  once, 
while  yet  her  attention  was  absorbed  in  the  cen- 
tral figure,  which  she  needed  no  further  explana- 
tion to  perceive  had  at  once  become  the  first 
object,  the  chief  interest,  to  all  near  her.  Dying ! 
It  was  more  than  mere  reigning,  more  than  being 
great.  To  think  that  where  she  lay  there  she  was 
going  fast  away  into  the  most  august  presence, 
to  the  deepest  wonders !  Dora  held  her  breath 
with  awe.  She  never,  save  when  her  father  was 
swimming  for  his  life,  and  her  thoughts  were  con- 
centrated on  the  struggle  with  all  the  force  of 
personal  passion,  as  if  it  were  she  herself  who  was 
fighting  against  death,  had  seen  any  such  sight 
before. 

"Is  it  Dora?"  cried  the  patient.  "Dora! 
Oh,  my  child,  my  child,  have  you  come  at  last }  " 

And  then  Dora  found  arms  round  her  clutch- 
ing her  close,  and  felt  with  a  strange  awe,  not  un- 
mingled  with  terror,  the  wild  beating  of  a  feverish 
heart,  and  the  panting  of  a  laborious  breath. 
The  wan  face  was  pressed  against  hers.  She  felt 
herself  held  for  a  mom.ent  with  extraordinary 
force,  and  kisses,  tears,  and  always  the  beat  of 
that  troubled  breathing,  upon  her  cheek.  Then 
the  grasp  relaxed  reluctantly,  because  the  sufferer 
could  do  no  more. 

"  Oh,  gently,  gently ;  do  not  wear  yourself 
GUL  She  is  not  going  away.  She  has  come  to 
stay  with  you,"  a  soothing  voice  said. 

"That's  all  I  want — all  I  want  in  this  world — 
what  I  came  for,"  gave  forth  the  panting  lips. 

Dora'$   impulse  was   to   cry,    "No,  no ! "   to 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  193 

rise  up  from  her  knees,  upon  which  she  had  fallen 
unconsciously  by  the  sick  bed,  to  withdraw  from 
it,  and  if  possible  get  away  altogether,  terrified  of 
that  close  vicinity  :  but  partly  what  Miss  Bethune 
had  said,  and  partly  natural  feeling,  the  instinct  of 
humanity,  kept  her  in  spite  of  herself  where  she 
was.  The  poor  lady  lay  with  her  face  intent 
upon  Dora,  stroking  her  hair  and  her  forehead 
with  those  hot  thin  hands,  beaming  upon  her 
with  that  ineffable  smile  which  is  the  prerogative 
of  the  dying. 

*'  Oh,  my  little  girl,"  she  said, — "  my  only  one, 
my  only  one !  Twelve  years  it  is — twelve  long 
years — and  all  the  time  thinking  of  this  !  When 
I've  been  ill, — and  I've  been  very  ill,  Miller  will 
tell  you, — I've  kept  up,  I've  forced  myself  to  be 
better  for  this — for  this  !  " 

"  You  will  wear  yourself  out,  ma'am,"  said  the 
nurse.  "  You  must  not  talk,  you  must  be  quiet, 
or  I  shall  have  to  send  the  young  lady  away." 

'*  No,  no ! "  cried  the  dying  woman,  again 
clutching  Dora  with  fevered  arms.  "  For  what 
must  I  be  quiet  ? — to  live  a  little  longer  ?  I  only 
want  to  live  while  she's  here.  I  only  want  it  as 
long  as  I  can  see  her — Dora,  you'll  stay  with  me, 
you'll  stay  with  your  poor — poor " 

"  She  shall  stay  as  long  as  you  v/ant  her  :  but 
for  God's  sake  think  of  something  else,  woman — 
think  of  where  you're  going  !  "  cried  Miss  Bethune 
harshly  over  Dora's  head. 

They  disposed  of  her  at  their  ease,  talking 
over  her  head,  bandying  her  about — she  who  was 
mistress  of  her  own  actions,  who  had  never  been 


194  ^  House  in  Bloomsdury, 

made  to  stay  where  she  did  not  wish  to  stay,  or 
to  go  v/here  she  did  not  care  to  go.  But  Dora 
was  silent  even  in  the  rebellion  of  her  spirit. 
There  was  a  something  more  strong  than  herself, 
which  kept  her  there  on  her  knees  in  the  middle 
of  the  circle — all,  as  Miss  Bethune  had  said, 
attending  on  the  one  who  was  dying,  the  one  who 
was  of  the  first  interest,  to  whom  even  the  queen 
would  bow  and  defer  if  she  were  to  come  in  here. 
Dora  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  a  person  in 
such  a  position.  She  approved,  yet  was  angry 
that  Miss  Bethune  should  bid  the  poor  lady  think 
where  she  was  going.  She  was  frightened  and 
excited,  not  knowing  what  dreadful  change  might 
take  place,  what  alteration,  before  her  very  eyes. 
Her  heart  began  to  beat  wildly  against  her  breast; 
pity  was  in  it,  but  fear  too,  which  is  masterful  and 
obliterates  other  em.otions :  yet  even  that  was 
kept  in  check  by  the  overwhelming  influence,  the 
fascination  of  the  chamber  of  death. 

Then  there  was  a  pause ;  and  Dora,  still  on 
her  knees  bv  the  side  of  the  bed,  met  as  best  she 
could  the  light  which  dazzled  her,  which  enveloped 
her  in  a  kind  of  pale  flame,  from  the  eyes  preter- 
naturally  bright  that  were  fixed  upon  her  face, 
and  listened,  as  to  a  kind  of  strange  lullaby,  to  the 
broken  words  of  fondness,  a  murmur  of  fond 
names,  of  half  sentences,  and  monosyllables,  in  the 
silence  of  the  hushed  room.  This  seemed  to  last 
for  a  long  time.  She  was  conscious  of  people 
passing  with  hushed  steps  behind  her,  looking 
over  her  head,  a  man's  low  voice,  the  whisper  of 
the  nurses,  a  movement  of  the  lights  ;  but  always 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  195 

that  transfigured  face,  all  made  of  whiteness, 
luminous,  the  hot  breath  coming  and  going,  the 
hands  about  her  face,  the  murmur  of  words.  The 
girl  was  cramped  v/ith  her  attitude  for  a  time,  and 
then  the  cramp  went  away,  and  her  body  became  [ 
numb,  keeping  its  position  like  a  mechanical 
thing,  while  her  mind  too  was  lulled  into  a  curious 
sense  of  torpor,  yet  spectatorship.  This  lasted 
she  did  not  know  how  long.  She  ceased  to  be 
aware  of  what  was  being  said  to  her.  Her  own 
name,  "  Dora,"  over  and  over  again  repeated,  and 
strange  words,  that  came  back  to  her  afterwards, 
went  on  in  a  faltering  stream.  Hours  might  have 
passed  for  anything  she  knew,  when  at  last  she 
was  raised,  scarcely  capable  of  feeling  anything, 
and  put  into  a  chair  by  the  bedside.  She  became 
dimly  conscious  that  the  brilliant  eyes  that  had 
been  gazing  at  her  so  long  were  being  veiled  as 
with  sleep,  but  they  opened  again  suddenly  as 
she  was  removed,  and  were  fixed  upon  her  with 
an  anguish  of  entreaty.  "  Dora,  my  child, — my 
child  !     Don't  take  her  away ! " 

"  She  is  going  to  sit  by  you  here,"  said  a 
voice,  which  could  only  be  a  doctor's  voice,  "  here 
by  your  bedside.  It  is  easier  for  her.  She  is  not 
going  away." 

Then  the  ineffable  smile  came  back.  The  two 
thin  hands  enveloped  Dora's  wrist,  holding  her 
hand  close  between  them ;  and  again  there  came  a 
wonderful  interval — the  dark  room,  the  little  stars 
of  lights,  the  soft  m.ovements  of  the  attendants 
gradually  fixing  themselves  like  a  picture  on 
Dora's  mind.      Miss  Bethune  was  behind  in  the 


196  A  House  in  Bloomsdury. 

dark,  sitting  bolt  upright  against  the  wall,  and 
never  moving.  Shadowed  by  the  curtains  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  was  some  one*  with  a  white  and 
anxious  face,  whom  Dora  had  only  seen  in  the 
cheerful  light,  and  could  scarcely  identify  as  Harry 
Gordon.  A  doctor  and  the  white-capped  nurse 
were  in  front,  the  maid  crying  behind.  It  seemed 
to  go  on  again  and  last  for  hours  this  strange 
scene — until  there  suddenly  arose  a  little  rom- 
motion  and  movement  about  the  bed,  Dora  could 
not  tell  why  Her  hand  was  liberated ;  the 
other  figures  came  between  her  and  the  wan  face 
on  the  pillow,  and  she  found  herself  suddenly, 
swiftly  swept  away.  She  neither  made  any 
resistance  nor  yet  moved  of  her  own  will,  and 
scarcely  knew  what  was  happening  until  she  felt 
the  fresh  night  air  on  her  face,  and  found  herself 
in  a  carriage,  with  Harry  Gordon's  face,  very 
grave  and  white,  at  the  window. 

'*  You  will  come  to  me  in  the  morning  and  let 
me  know  the  arrangements,"  Miss  Bethune  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  will  come  ;  and  thank  you,  thank  you 
a  thousand  times  for  bringing  her,"  he  said. 

They  all  talked  of  Dora  as  if  she  were  a 
thing,  as  if  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  herself. 
Her  mind  was  roused  by  the  motion,  by  the  air 
blowing  in  her  face.  "What  has  happened.'* 
What  has  happened  ? "  she  asked  as  they  drove 
away. 

"  Will  she  be  up  yonder  already,  beyond  that 
shining  sky  .•*  Will  she  know  as  she  is  known  } 
Will  she  be  satisfied  with  His  likeness,  and  be 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  197 

like  Him,  seeing  Him  as  He  is?"  said  Miss 
Bethune,  looking  up  at  the  stars,  with  her  eyes 
full  of  big  tears. 

"  Oh,  tell  me,"  cried  Dora,  "  what  has 
happened  ? "  with  a  sob  of  excitement ;  for 
whether  she  was  sorr5.%  or  only  awe-stricken, 
she  did  not  know. 

"  Just  everything  has  happened  that  can 
happen  to  a  woman  here  She  has  got  safe 
away  out  of  it  all ;  and  there  are  few,  few  at  my 
time  of  life,  that  would  not  be  thankful  to  be  like 
her — out  of  it  all :  though  it  may  be  a  great 
thought  to  go." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  the  lady  is  dead  ?  "  Dora 
asked  in  a  voice  of  awe. 

"  She  is  dead,  as  we  say  ;  and  content,  having 
had  her  heart's  desire." 

**Was  that  me?"  cried  Dora,  humbled  by  a 
great   wonder.     "  Me  ?     Why   should   she   have 

wanted   me  so  much  as  that,  and  not  to  let  me 

?»» 
&^- 

"  Oh,  child,   I   know  no  more  than  you,  and 

yet   I   know  well,  well !     Because  she  was  your 

mother,  and  you  were  all  she  had  in  the  world." 

"  My  mother's  sister,"  said  Dora,  with  childish 
sternness;  "and,"  she  added  after  a  moment,  "not 
my  father's  friend." 

"Oh,  hard  life  and  hard  judgment!"  cried 
Miss  Bethune.  "  Your  mother's  own  self,  a  poor 
martyr :  except  that  at  the  last  she  has  had,  what 
not  every  woman  has,  for  a  little  moment,  her 
heart's  desire ! " 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Young  Gordon  went  into  Miss  Bethune's  sitting- 
room  next  morning  so  early  that  she  was  still  at 
breakfast,  lingering  over  her  second  cup  of  tea. 
His  eyes  had  the  look  of  eyes  which  had  not 
slept,  and  that  air  of  mingled  fatigue  and  excite- 
ment which  shows  that  a  great  crisis  which  had  just 
come  was  about  his  whole  person  His  energetic 
young  limbs  were  languid  with  it.  He  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  as  if  even  that  support  and 
repose  were  comfortable,  and  an  ease  to  his  whole 
being. 

*'  She  rallied  for  a  moment  after  you  were 
gone,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  not  looking  at  his 
companion,  "  but  not  enough  to  notice  anything. 
The  doctor  said  there  was  no  pain  or  suffering — 
if  he  knows  anything  about  it" 

**  Ay,  if  he  knows,'  Miss  Bethune  said. 

"And  so  she  is  gone,"  said  the  young  man 
with  a  deep  sigh  He  struggled  for  a  moment 
with  his  voice,  which  went  from  him  in  the  sudden 
'access  of  sorrow.  After  a  minute  he  resumed  • 
•"  She's  gone,  and  my  occupation,  all  my  reasons 
for  living,  seem  to  be  gone  too.  I  know  no  more 
what  is  going  to  happen.  I  was  her  son  yester- 
day, and  did  everything  for  her ;  now  I  don't 
know  what  I  am.  I  am  nobody,  with  scarcely 
the  right  even  to  be  there." 

(198) 


A  House  in  Bloo-msbury.  199 

**  What  do  you  mean  ?  Everybody  must  know 
what  you  have  been  to  her,  and  her  to  you,  all 
your  life." 

The  young  man  was  leaning  forward  in  his 
chair  bent  almost  double,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  floor.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  never  understood  it 
before :  but  I  know  now  what  it  is  to  have  no 
rightful  place,  to  have  been  only  a  dependent  on 
their  kindness.  When  my  guardian  died  I  did 
not  feel  it,  because  she  was  still  there  to  think  of 
me,  and  I  was  her  representative  in  everything ; 
but  now  the  solicitor  has  taken  the  command,  and 
makes  me  see  I  am  nobody.  It  is  not  for  the 
money,"  the  young  man  said,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand.  "  Let  that  go  however  she  wished.  God 
knows  I  would  never  complain.  But  I  might 
have  been  allowed  to  do  something  for  her,  to 
manage  things  for  her  as  I  have  done — oh.  almost 
ever  since  I  can  remember"  He  looked  up  with 
a  pale  and  troubled  smile,  wistful  for  sympathy. 
*'I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  cut  adrift,"  he  said. 

"My  poor  boy!  But  she  must  have  provided 
for  you,  fulfilled  the  expectations " 

"  Don't  say  that !  *'  he  cried  quickly.  "  There 
were  no  expectations.  I  can  truly  say  I  never 
thought  upon  the  subject — never ! — until  we  came 
here  to  London.  Then  it  was  forced  upon  me 
that  I  was  good  for  nothing,  did  not  know  how 
to  make  my  living  It  was  almost  amusing  at 
first,  I  was  so  unused  to  it ;  but  not  now  I  am 
afraid  I  am  quite  useless,"  he  added,  with  again 
a  piteous  smile.  "  I  am  in  the  state  of  the  poor 
fellow  in  the  Bible,      '  I  can't  dig,  and  to  beg  I 


200  A  House  in  Bloonisbury, 

am  ashamed'  I  don't  know,"  he  cried,  "  why  I 
should  trouble  you  with  all  this.  But  you  said 
I  was  to  come  to  you  in  the  morning,  and  I  feel 
I  can  speak  to  you.  That's  about  all  the  expla- 
nation there  is." 

^  •*  It's  the  voice  of  nature,"  cried  Miss  Bethune 
quickly,  an  eager  flush  covering  her  face.  "  Don't 
you  knov/,  don't  you  i^^X,  that  there  is  nobody 
but  me  you  could  come  to  i* — that  you  are  sure  of 
me  whoever  fails  you — that  there's  a  sympathy, 
and  more  than  a  sympathy  ?  Oh,  my  boy,  I  will 
be  to  you  all,  and  more  than  all ! " 

She  was  so  overcome  with  her  own  emotion 
that  she  could  not  get  out  another  word. 

A  flush  came  also  upon  Harry  Gordon's  pale 
face,  a  look  abashed  and  full  of  wonder.  He  felt 
that  this  lady,  whom  he  liked  and  respected,  went 
so  much  too  far,  so  much  farther  than  there  was 
any  justification  for  doing.  He  was  troubled 
instinctively  for  her,  that  she  should  be  so  impul- 
sive, so  strangely  affected.  He  shook  his  head. 
"  Don't  think  me  ungrateful,"  he  cried.  "Indeed, 
I  don't  know  if  you  mean  all  that  your  words 
seem  to  mean — as  how  should  you  indeed,  and  1 
only  a  stranger  to  you  ?  But,  dear  Miss  Bethune, 
that  can  never  be  again.  It  is  bad  enough,  as  I 
find  out,  to  have  had  no  real  tie  to  her,  my  dear 
lady  that's  gone — and  to  feel  that  everybody  must 
think  my  grief  for  my  poor  aunt  is  partly  dis- 
appointment because  she  has  not  provided  for  me. 
But  no  such  link  could  be  forged  again.  I  was  a 
child  when  that  v/as  made.  It  was  naturzil ;  they 
settled  things  for  me  as  they  pleased,  and  I  knew 


A  House  in  Blootnsbury,  201 

nothing  but  that  I  was  very  happy  there,  and 
loved  them,  and  they  me.  But  now  I  am  a  man, 
and  must  stand  for  myself.  Don't  think  me  un- 
gracious. It's  impossible  but  that  a  man  with  full 
use  of  his  limbs  must  be  able  to  earn  his  bread. 
It's  only  going  back  to  South  America,  if  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst,  where  everybody  knows 
me,"  he  said. 

Miss  Bethune's  countenance  had  been  like  a 
drama  while  young  Gordon  made  this  long  speech, 
most  of  which  was  uttered  with  iitde  breaks  and 
pauses,  without  looking  at  her,  in  the  same  atti- 
tude, with  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  Yet  he 
looked  up  once  or  twice  with  that  flitting  sad 
smile,  and  an  air  of  begging  pardon  for  anything 
he  said  which  might  wound  her.  Trouble,  and 
almost  shame,  and  swift  contradiction,  and  anger, 
and  sympathy,  and  tender  pity,  and  a  kind  of 
admiration,  all  went  over  her  face  in  waves.  She 
was  wounded  by  what  he  said,  and  disappointed, 
and  yet  approved.  Could  there  be  all  these  things 
in  the  hard  lines  of  a  middle-aged  face  }  And  yet 
there  were  all,  and  more.  She  recovered  herself 
quickly  as  he  came  to  an  end,  and  with  her  usual 
voice  replied : — 

"  We  must  not  be  so  hasty  to  begin  with.  It 
is  more  than  likely  that  the  poor  lady  has  made 
the  position  clear  in  her  will.  We  must  not  jump 
to  the  conclusion  that  things  are  not  explained  in 
that  and  set  right ;  it  would  be  a  slur  upon  her 
memory  even  to  think  that  it  would  not  be  so." 

"There  must  be  no  slur  on  her  memory,"  said 
young  Gordon  quickly ;  "  but   I  am  almost  sure 


202  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

that  it  v^ill  not  be  so.  She  told  me  repeatedly 
that  I  was  not  to  blame  her — as  if  it  were  likely 
I  should  blame  her ! " 

**  She  would  deserve  blame,"  cried  Miss  Be- 
thune  quickly,  '*  if  after  all  that  has  passed  she 
should  leave  you  with  no  provision,  no  acknow- 
ledgment   " 

He  put  up  his  hand  to  stop  her. 

"Not  a  word  of  that!  What  I  wanted  was  to 
keep  my  place  until  after — until  all  was  done  for 
her.  I  am  a  mere  baby,"  he  cried,  dashing  away 
the  tears  from  his  eyes.  "It  was  that  solicitor 
coming  in  to  take  charge  of  everything,  to  lock  up 
everything,  to  give  all  the  orders,  that  was  more 
tlian  I  could  bear." 

She  did  not  trust  herself  to  say  anything^  but 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  And  the  poor  young 
fellow  was  at  the  end  of  his  forces,  worn  out  bodily 
with  anxiety  and  want  of  sleep,  and  mentally  by 
grief  and  the  conflict  of  emotions.  He  bent  down 
his  face  upon  her  hand,  kissing  it  with  a  kind  of 
passion,  and  burst  out,  leaning  his  head  upon  her 
arm,  into  a  storm  of  tears,  that  broke  from  him 
against  his  will.  Miss  Bethune  put  her  other 
hand  upon  his  bowed  head  ;  her  face  quivered 
with  the  yearning  of  her  whole  life.  "  Oh,  God, 
is  he  my  bairn? — Oh,  God,  that  he  were  my 
bairn !  "  she  cried. 

But  nobody  would  have  guessed  what  this 
crisis  had  been  who  saw  them  a  little  after,  as 
Dora  saw  them,  who  came  into  the  room  pale  too 
with  the  unusual  vigil  of  the  previous  night,  but 
full  of  an  indignant  something  which  she  had  to 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  203 

say.  "  Miss  Bethune,"  she  cried,  almost  before 
she  had  closed  the  door,  "do  you  know  what 
Gilchrist  told  father  about  last  night  ? — that  I  was 
tired  when  I  came  in,  and  had  a  headache,  and 
she  had  put  me  to  bed  !  And  now  I  have  to  tell 
lies  too,  to  say  I  am  better,  and  to  agree  when  he 
thanks  Gilchrist  for  her  care,  and  says  it  was  the  j 
best  thing  for  me.  Oh,  what  a  horrible  thing  it 
is  to  tell  lies !  To  hide  things  from  him,  and 
invent  excuses,  and  cheat  him — cheat  him  with 
stories  that  are  not  true  !  " 

Her  hair  waved  behind  her,  half  curling,  crisp, 
inspired  by  indignation  :  her  slim  figure  seemed 
to  expand  and  grow,  her  eyes  shone-  Miss 
Bethune  had  certainly  not  gained  anything  by  the 
deceptions,  which  were  very  innocent  ones  after 
all,  practised  upon  Mr.  Mannering :  but  she  had 
to  bear  the  brunt  of  this  shock  with  what  com- 
posure she  might.  She  laughed  a  little,  half  glad 
to  shake  off  the  fumes  of  deeper  emotion  in 
this  new  incident.  "  As  soon  as  he  is  stronger 
you  shall  explain  everything  to  him,  Dora," 
she  said.  "  When  the  body  is  weak  the  mind 
should  not  be  vexed  more  than  is  possible  with 
perplexing  things  or  petty  cares.  But  as  soon  as 
he  is  better " 

"  And  now,"  cried  Dora,  flinging  back  her  hair,; 
all  crisped,  and  almost  scintillating,  with  anger  and  I 
distress,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  "  here  comes 
the  doctor  now — far,  far  worse  than  any  bills  or 
any  perplexities,  and  tells  him  straight  out  that  he 
must  ask  for  a  year's  holiday  and  go  away,  first 
for   the   rest  of  the  summer,   and   then    for  the 


204  A  House  in  Bloom^bury, 

winter,  as  father  says,  to  one  of  those  places  where 
all  the  fools  go ! — father,  whose  life  is  in  the 
Museum,  who  cares  for  nothing  else,  who  can't  bear 
to  go  away !  Oh ! "  cried  Dora,  stamping  her  foot, 
"  to  think  I  should  be  made  to  lie,  to  keep  little, 
little  things  from  him — contemptible  things !  and 
that  then  the  doctor  should  come  straight  upstairs 
and  without  any  preface,  without  any  apology, 
blurt  out  that  I " 

**  The  doctor  must  have  thought,  Dora,  it 
was  better  for  him  to  know.  He  says  all  will  go 
well,  he  will  get  quite  strong,  and  be  able  to  work 
in  the  Museum  to  his  heart's  content,  if  only  he 
will  do  this  now." 

"If  only  he  will  do  this!  If  only  he  will  in- 
vent a  lot  of  money,  father  says,  which  we  haven't 
got.  And  how  is  the  money  to  be  invented  ?  .It 
is  like  telling  poor  Mrs.  Hesketh  not  to  walk,  but 
to  go  out  in  a  carriage  every  day.  Perhaps  that 
would  make  her  quite  well,  poor  thing  It  would 
make  the  beggar  at  the  corner  quite  well  if  he 
had  turtle  soup  and  champagne  like  father.  And 
we  must  stop  even  the  turtle  soup  and  the  cham- 
pagne. He  will  not  have  them  ;  they  make  him 
angry  now  that  he  has  come  to  himself.  Cannot 
you  see,  Miss  Bethune,"  cried  Dora  with  youthful 
superiority,  as  if  such  a  thought  could  never  have 
occurred  to  her  friend,  "that  we  can  only  do 
things  which  we  can  do — that  there  are  some 
things  that  are  impossible }  Oh  I "  she  said 
suddenly,  perceiving  for  the  first  time  young 
Gordon  with  a  start  of  annoyance  and  surprise. 
"  I  did  not  know,"  cried   Dora,  "  that  I   was  dis- 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  205 

cussing  our  affairs  before  a  gentleman  who  can't 
take  any  interest  in  them." 

"  Dora,  is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  one  that 
shared  our  watch  last  night — that  has  just  come, 
as  it  were,  from  her  that  is  gone?  Have  you  no 
thought  of  that  poor  lady,  and  what  took  place  so 
lately  ?     Oh,  my  dear,  have  a  softer  heart" 

**  Miss  Bethune,"  said  Dora  with  dignity,  "  I 
am  very  sorry  for  the  poor  lady  of  last  night.  I 
was  a  little  angry  because  I  was  made  to  deceive 
father,  but  my  heart  was  not  hard.  I  was  very 
sorry.  But  how  can  I  go  on  thinking  about  her 
when  I  have  father  to  think  of?  I  could  not  be 
fond  of  her,  could  I  ?  I  did  not  know  her — I 
never  saw  her  but  once  before.  If  she  was  my 
mother's  sister,  she  was — she  confessed  it  herself 
— father's  enemy.  I  must — I  must  be  on  father's 
side,"  cried  Dora,  "I  have  had  no  one  else  all  my 
life." 

Miss  Bethune  and  her  visitor  looked  at  each 
other, — he  with  a  strange  painful  smile,  she  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "It  is  just  the  common  way," 
she  said, — **just  the  common  way!  You  look 
over  the  one  that  loves  you,  and  you  heap  love 
upon  the  one  that  loves  you  not." 

"It  cannot  be  the  common  way,"  said  Gordon, 
"for  the  circumstances  are  not  common.  It  is 
because  of  strange  things,  and  relations  that  are 
not  natural.  I  had  no  right  to  that  love  you 
speak  of,  and  Dora  had.  But  I  have  got  all  the 
advantages  of  it  for  many  a  year.  There  is  no 
injustice  if  she  who  has  the  natural  right  to  it  gets 
it  now." 


2o6  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

"  Oh,  my  poor  boy,"  cried  Miss  Bethune,  "  you 
argue  well,  but  you  know  better  in  your  heart." 

"  I  have  not  a  grudge  in  my  heart,"  he  ex- 
claimed, **  not  one,  nor  a  complaint.     Oh,  believe 
me ! — except  to  be  put  away  as  if  I  were  nobody, 
just  at  this  moment  v/hen  there  was  still   some-  \ 
thing  to  do  for  her,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  ' 

Dora  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  half 
wondering,  half  impatient.  "You  are  talking  of 
Mr.  Gordon's  business  now,"  she  said;  "and  I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that,  any  more  than  he 
has  to  do  with  mine.  I  had  better  go  back  to 
father.  Miss  Bethune,  if  you  will  tell  Dr.  Roland 
that  he  is  cruel — that  he  ouo;ht  to  have  waited  till 
father  was  stronger — that  it  was  wicked — wicked 
— to  go  and  pour  out  all  that  upon  him  without 
any  preparation,  when  even  I  was  out  of  the  way." 

*•  Indeed,  I  think  there  is  reason  in  what  you 
say,  Dora,"  said  Miss  Bethune,  as  the  girl  went 
away. 

"  It  will  not  matter,"  said  Gordon,  after  the 
door  was  closed.  "  That  is  one  thing  to  be  glad 
of,  there  will  be  no  more  want  of  money.  Now," 
he  said,  rising,  "  I  must  go  back  again.  It  has 
been  a  relief  to  come  and  tell  you  everything,  but 
now  it  seems  as  if  I  had  a  hunger  to  go  back  :  and 
yet  it  is  strange  to  go  back.  It  is  strange  to  walk 
about  the  streets  and  to  know  that  I  have  nobody 
to  go  home  to,  that  she  is  far  away,  and  unmoved 
by  anything  that  can  happen  to  me."  He  paused 
a  moment,  and  added,  with  that  low  laugh  which 
is  the  alternative  of  tears  :  "  Not  to  say  that  there 
is  no  home  to  go  back  to,  nothing  but  a  room  in  a 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  207 

hotel  which  I  must  get  out  of  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  nobody  belonging  to  me,  or  that  I  belong  to. 
It  is  so  difficult  to  get  accustomed  to  the  idea." 

Miss  Bethune  gave  a  low  cry.  It  was  inarticu- 
late, but  she  could  not  restrain  it.  She  put  out 
both  her  hands,  then  drew  them  back  again  ;  and 
after  he  had  gone  away,  she  went  on  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room,  making  this  involuntary  movement, 
murmuring  that  outcry,  which  was  not  even  a 
word,  to  herself.  She  put  out  her  hands,  some- 
times her  arms,  then  brought  them  back  and 
pressed  them  to  the  heart  which  seemed  to  be 
bursting  from  her  breast.  "  Oh,  if  it  might  still 
be  that  he  were  mine!  Oh,  if  I  might  believe  it 
(as  I  do — I  do !)  and  take  him  to  me  whether  or 
no!"  Her  thoughts  shaped  themselves  as  their 
self-repression  gave  way  to  that  uncontrollable 
tide.  *'  Oh,  well  might  he  say  that  it  was  not  the 
common  wav!  the  woman  that  had  been  a  mother 
to  him,  thinking  no  more  of  him  the  moment  her 
own  comes  in!  And  might  I  be  like  that  .>*  If 
I  took  him  to  my  heart,  that  I  think  must  be 
mine,  and  then  the  other,  the  true  one — that  would 
know  nothing  of  me!  And  he,  what  does  he  know 
of  me  ? — what  does  he  think  of  me  ? — an  old  fool 
that  puts  out  my  arms  to  him  without  rhyme  or 
reason.  But  then  it's  to  me  he  comes  when  he's 
in  trouble  ;  he  comes  to  me,  he  leans  his  head  on 
me,  just  by  instinct,  by  nature.  And  nature  cries 
out  in  me  here."  She  put  her  hands  once  more 
with  unconscious  dramatic  action  to  her  heart, 
*•  Nature  cries  out — nature  cries  out !  " 

Unconsciously  she  said  these  words  aloud,  and 


2o8  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

herself  startled  by  the  sound  of  her  own  voice, 
looked  up  suddenly,  to  see  Gilchrist,  who  had  just 
come  into  the  room,  standing  gazing  at  her  with 
an  expression  of  pity  and  condemnation  which 
drove  her  mistress  frantic.  Miss  Bethune 
coloured  high.  She  stopped  in  a  moment  her 
agitated  walk,  and  placed  herself  in  a  chair  with 
an  air  of  hauteur  and  loftiness  difficult  to  describe. 
"Well,"  she  said,  "were  you  wanting  anything?" 
as  if  the  excellent  and  respectable  person  standing 
before  her  had  been,  as  Gilchrist  herself  said  after- 
wards, "  the  scum  of  the  earth  ". 

"  No*  much,  mem,"  said  Gilchrist ;  "  only  to 
know  if  you  were " — poor  Gilchrist  was  so 
frightened  by  her  mistress's  aspect  that  she  in- 
vented reasons  which  had  no  sound  of  truth  in 
them—"  going  out  this  morning,  or  wanting 
your  seam  or  the  stocking  you  were  knitting." 

"  Did  you  think  I  had  all  at  once  become 
doited,  and  did  not  know  what  I  wanted  }  "  asked 
Miss  Bethune  sternly. 

Gilchrist  made  no  reply,  but  dropped  her 
guilty  head. 

"  To  think,"  cried  the  lady,  "  that  I  cannot 
have  a  visitor  in  the  morning — a  common  visitor 
like  those  that  come  and  go  about  every  idle 
person, — nor  take  a  thought  into  my  mind,  nor 
say  a  word  even  to  myself,  but  in  comes  an  in- 
trusive serving-woman  to  worm  out  of  me,  with 
her  frightened  looks  and  her  peety  and  her  com- 
passion, what  it's  all  about !  Lord !  if  it  were 
any  other  than  a  woman  that's  been  about  me 
twenty  years,  and  had  just  got  herself  in  to  be  a 


A  House  tn  Bloomsbury,  209 

habit  and  a  custom,  that  would  dare  to  come  with 
her  soft  looks  peetying  me ! " 

Having  come  to  a  climax,  voice  and  feeling 
together,  in  those  words,  Miss  Bethune  suddenly 
burst  into  the  tempest  of  tears  which  all  this  time 
had  been  gathering  and  growing  beyond  any 
power  of  hers  to  restrain  them. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  leddy,  my  dear  leddy!"  Gilchrist 
said ;  then,  gradually  drawing  nearer,  took  her 
mistress's  head  upon  her  ample  bosom  till  the  fit 
was  over. 

When  Miss  Bethune  had  calmed  herself  again, 
she  pushed  the  maid  away. 

**  I'll  have  no  communication  with  you,"  she 
said.  "You're  a  good  enough  servant,  you're  not 
an  ill  woman ;  but  as  for  real  sympathy  or  support 
in  what  is  most  dear,  it's  no'  you  that  will  give 
them  to  any  person.  I'm  neither  wanting  to  go 
out  nor  to  take  my  seanL  I  will  maybe  read  a 
book  to  quiet  myself  down,  but  I'm  not  meaning 
to  hold  any  communication  with  you." 

"  Oh,  mem ! "  said  Gilchrist,  in  appeal :  but 
she  was  not  deeply  cast  down.  "  If  it  was  about 
the  young  gentleman,"  she  added,  sifter  a  moment, 
'*  I  just  ihink  he  is  as  nice  a  young  gentleman  as 
the  world  contains." 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  so?"  cried  the  mistress 
in  triumph,  "And  like  the  gracious  blood  he's 
come  of,"  she  said,  rising  to  her  feet  again,  as  if 
she  were  waving  a  flag  of  victory.  Then  she  sat 
down  abruptly,  and  opened  upside  down  the  book 
she  had  taken  from  the  table.  "  But  I'll  hold  no 
cpinmunicatioa  with  you  qq  that  subject/'  she  said« 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Mr  Mannering  had  got  into  his  sitting-room  the 
next  day,  as  the  first  change  for  which  he  was 
able  in  his  convalescent  state.  The  doctor's 
decree,  that  he  must  give  up  work  for  a  year, 
and  spend  the  winter  abroad,  had  been  fulminated 
forth  upon  him  in  the  manner  described  by  Dora, 
as  a  means  of  rousing  him  from  the  lethargy  into 
which  he  was  falling.  After  Dr.  Roland  had 
refused  to  permit  of  bis  speedy  return  to  the 
Museum,  he  had  become  indifferent  to  everything 
except  the  expenses,  concerning  which  he  was 
now  on  the  most  jealous  watch,  declining  to  taste 
the  dainties  that  were  brought  to  him.  "  I  can- 
not afford  it,"  was  his  constant  cry.  He  had 
ceased  to  desire  to  get  up,  to  dress,  to  read,  which, 
in  preparation,  as  he  hoped,  for  going  out  again, 
he  had  been  at  first  so  eager  to  do.  Then  the 
doctor  had  delivered  his  full  broadside.  "  You 
may  think  what  you  like  of  me,  Mannering ;  of 
course,  it's  in  your  power  to  defy  me  and  die. 
You  can  if  you  like,  and  nobody  can  stop  you  : 
but  if  you  care  for  anything  in  this  world, — for 
that  child  who  has  no  protector  but  you," — here 
the  doctor  made  a  pause  full  of  force,  and  fixed 
the  patient  with  his  eyes, — "you  will  dismiss  all 
other  considerations,  and  make  up  your  mind  to 
do  what  will  make  you  well  again,  without  any 


A  House  in  Bloomshury.  2 1 1 

more  nonsense.     You   must  do  it,  and   nothing 
less  will  do." 

"Tell  the  beggar  round  the  corner  to  go  to 
Italy  for  the  winter,"  said  the  invalid ;  "  he'll 
manage  it  better  than  I.  A  man  can  beg  any- 
where, he  carries  his  profession  about  with  him. 
That's,  I  suppose,  what  you  mean  me  to  do." 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  do,"  cried  Dr.  Roland, 
"  as  long  as  you  do  what  I  say." 

Mr.  Mannering  was  so  indignant,  so  angry, 
so  roused  and  excited,  that  he  walked  into  his 
sitting-room  that  afternoon  breathing  fire  and 
flame.  "  I  shall  return  to  the  Museum  next 
week,"  he  said.  "  Let  them  do  what  they  please, 
Dora.  Italy !  And  what  better  is  Italy  than 
England,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  A  blazing  hot, 
deadly  cold,  impudently  beautiful  country.  No 
repose  in  it,  always  in  extremes  like  a  scene  in  a 
theatre,  or  else  like  chill  desolation,  misery,  and 
death.  I'll  not  hear  a  word  of  Italy.  The  South 
of  France  is  worse ;  all  the  exaggerations  of  the 
other,  and  a  volcano  underneath.  He  may  rave 
till  he  burst,  I  will  not  go.  The  Museum  is  the 
place  for  me — or  the  grave,  which  might  be  better 
still." 

*'  Would  you  take  me  there  with  you,  father?" 
'^said  Dora. 

'*  Child ! "  He  said  this  word  in  such  a  tone 
that  no  capitals  in  the  world  could  give  any  idea 
of  it ;  and  then  that  brought  him  to  a  pause,  and 
increased  the  force  of  the  hot  stimulant  that  al- 
ready was  working  in  his  veins.  "  But  we  have 
no  money,"  he  cried, — "no  money — no  money! 


212  A  House  in  Bloo^nsbury. 

Do  you  understand  that  ?  I  have  been  a  fool.  I 
have  been  going  on  spending  everything  I  had.  I 
never  expected  a  long  illness,  doctors  and  nurses, 
and  all  those  idiotic  luxuries.  I  can  eat  a  chop — 
do  you  hear,  Dora? — a  chop,  the  cheapest  you  can 
get.  I  can  live  on  dry  bread.  But  get  Into  debt 
I  will  not— not  for  you  and  all  your  doctors. 
There's  tha:  Fiddler  and  his  odious  book — three 
pounds  ten — what  for  .'*  For  a  piece  of  vanity,  to 
say  I  had  the  1490  edition:  not  even  to  say  it, 
for  who  cares  except  some  of  the  men  at  the 
Museum  ?  What  does  Roland  understand  about 
the  1490  edition  ?  He  probably  thinks  the  latest 
edition  is  always  the  best.  And  I — a  confounded 
fool — throwing  away  my  money — your  money, 
my  poor  child ! — for  I  can't  take  you  with  me, 
Dora,  as  you  say.     God  forbid — God  forbid !  " 

"Well,  father,"  said  Dora,  who  had  gone 
through  many  questions  with  herself  since  the 
conversation  in  Miss  Bethune's  room,  "  suppose 
we  v/ere  to  try  and  think  how  it  is  to  be  done. 
No  doubt,  as  he  is  the  doctor,  however  we  rebel, 
he  will  make  us  do  it  at  the  last." 

"How  can  he  make  us  do  it  ?  He  cannot  put 
money  in  my  pocket,  he  cannot  coin  money,  how- 
ever much  he  would  like  it ;  and  if  he  could,  I 
suppose  he  would  keep  it  for  himself.' 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  father." 

"  I  am  sure  of  this,  that  he  ought  to,  if  he  is 
not  a  fool.  Every  man  ought  to  who  has  a  spark 
of  sense  in  him.  I  have  not  done  it,  and  you  see 
what  happens.  Roland  may  be  a  great  idiot,  but 
not  so  great  an  idiot  as  I." 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  213 

"Oh,  father,  what  is  the  use  of  talking  like 
this  ?  Let  us  try  and  think  how  we  are  to  do  it," 
Dora  cried. 

His  renewed  outcry  that  he  could  not  do  it, 
that  it  was  not  a  thing  to  be  thought  of  for  a 
moment,  was  stopped  by  a  knock  at  the  door,  at 
which,  when  Dora,  after  vainly  bidding  the  un- 
known applicant  come  in,  opened  it,  there  ap- 
peared an  old  gentleman,  utterly  unknown  to  both, 
and  whose  appearance  was  extremely  disturbing 
to  the  invalid  newly  issued  from  his  sick  room,  and 
the  girl  who  still  felt  herself  his  nurse  and  pro- 
tector. 

•*  I  hope  I  do  not  come  at  a  bad  moment," 
the  stranger  said  *'  I  took  the  opportunity  ot  an 
open  door  to  come  straight  up  without  having 
myself  announced.  I  trust  I  may  be  pardoned 
for  the  liberty.  Mr.  Mannering,  you  do  not  re- 
collect me,  but  I  have  seen  you  before.  I  am 
Mr.  Templar,  of  Gray's  Inn.  I  have  something 
of  importance  to  say  to  you,  which  will,  I  trust, 
excuse  my  intrusion." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Dora.  *'  I  am  sure  you  cannot 
know  that  my  father  has  been  very  ill.  He  is 
out  of  his  room  for  the  first  time  to-day." 

The  old  gentleman  said  that  he  was  very 
sorry,  and  then  that  he  was  very  glad.  "That 
means  in  a  fair  way  of  recovery,"  he  said.  "  I 
don't  know,"  he  added,  addressing  Mannering, 
who  was  pondering  over  him  with  a  somewhat 
sombre  countenance,  "whether  I  may  speak  to 
you  about  my  business,  Mr.  Mannering,  at  such 
an  early  date :  but  I  am  almost  forced  to  do  so  by 


214  ^  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

my  orders  :  and  whether  you  would  rather  hear  my 
commission  in  presence  of  this  young  lady  or  not." 

"  Where  is  it  we  have  met  ?  "  Mannering  said, 
with  a  more  and  more  gloomy  look. 

"  I  will  tell  you  afterwards,  if  you  will  hear  me 
in  the  first  place.  I  come  to  announce  to  you, 
Mr.  Mannering,  the  death  of  a  client  of  mine,  who 
has  left  a  very  considerable  fortune  to  your 
daughter,  Dora  Mannering — this  young  lady,  I 
presume  :  and  with  it  a  prayer  that  the  young 
lady,  to  whom  she  leaves  everything,  may  be 
permitted  to — may,  with  your  consent " 

••Oh,"  cried  Dora,  "  I  know!  It  is  the  poor 
lady  from  South  America!"  And  then  she  be- 
came silent  and  grew  red.  "  Father,  I  have  hid 
something  from  you,"  she  said,  faltering.  ••  I 
have  seen  a  lady,  forgive  me,  who  was  your 
enemy.  She  said  you  would  never  forgive  her. 
Oh,  how  one's  sins  find  one  out !  It  was  not  my 
fault  that  I  went,  and  I  thought  you  would  never 
know.     She  was  mamma's  sister,  father." 

••She  was — who.?"  Mr.  Mannering  rose 
from  his  chair.  He  had  been  pale  before,  he 
became  now  livid,  yellow,  his  thin  cheek-bones 
standing  out,  his  hollow  eyes  with  a  glow  in  them, 
his  mouth  drawn  in.  He  towered  over  the  two 
people  beside  him — Dora  frightened  and  protest- 
in'T,  the  visitor  very  calm  and  observant — looking 
twice  his  height  in  his  extreme  leanness  and 
gauntness.  "Who — who  was  it?  Who?"  His 
whole  face  asked  the  question.  He  stood  a 
moment  tottering,  then  dropped  back  in  complete 
exhaustion  into  his  chair. 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  115 

"Father,"  cried  Dora,  "I  did  not  know  who 
she  was.  She  was  very  ill  and  wanted  me.  It 
was  she  who  used  to  send  me  those  things.  Miss 
Bethune  took  me,  it  was  only  once,  and  I — I  was 
there  when  she  died."  The  recollection  choked 
her  voice,  and  made  her  tremble.  "  Father,  she 
said  you  would  not  forgive  her,  that  you  were 
never  to  be  told  ;  but  I  could  not  believe,"  cried 
Dora,  "  that  there  was  any  one,  ill  or  sorry,  and 
very,  very  weak,  and  in  trouble,  whom  you  would 
not  forgive." 

Mr,  Mannering  sat  gazing  at  his  child,  with 
his  eyes  burning  in  their  sockets.  At  these  words 
he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  And  there 
was  silence,  save  for  a  sob  of  excitement  from 
Dora,  excitement  so  long  repressed  that  it  burst 
forth  now  with  all  the  greater  force.  The  visitor, 
for  some  time,  did  not  say  a  word.  Then  sud- 
denly he  put  forth  his  hand  and  touched  the  elbow 
which  rested  like  a  sharp  point  on  the  table. 
He  said  softly :  "  It  was  the  lady  you  imagine. 
She  is  dead.  She  has  led  a  life  of  suffering  and 
trouble.  She  has  neither  been  well  nor  happy. 
Her  one  wish  was  to  see  her  child  before  she 
died.  When  she  was  left  free,  as  happened  by 
death  some  time  ago,  she  came  to  England  for 
that  purpose.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  or  how 
little  the  friends  knew,  who  helped  her.  They 
thought  it,  I  believe,  a  family  quarrel." 

Mr.  Mannering  uncovered  his  ghastly  counte- 
nance. "  It  is  better  they  should  continue  to 
think  so." 

"That  is  as  you  please.     For  my  own  part, 


it 
tt 


2i6  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

I  think  the  child  at  least  should  know.  The 
request,  the  prayer  that  was  made  on  her  death- 
bed in  all  humility,  was  that  Dora  should  follow 
her  remains  to  the  grave." 

To  what  good  }  "  he  cried,  "  to  what  good  ?  " 
To  no  good.  Have  you  forgotten  her,  that 
you  ask  that }  I  told  her,  if  she  had  asked  to  see 
you,  to  get  your  forgiveness " 

"Silence!"  cried  Mr.  Mannering,  lifting  his 
thin  hand  as  if  with  a  threat. 

"  But  she  had  not  courage.  She  wanted  only, 
she  said,  her  own  flesh  and  blood  to  stand  by  her 
grave.* 

Mannering  made  again  a  gesture  with  his 
hand,  but  no  reply. 

"  She  has  left  everything  of  which  she  died 
possessed — a  considerable,  I  may  say  a  large 
fortune — to  her  only  child." 

"  I  refuse  her  fortune ! "  cried  Mannering, 
bringing  down  his  clenched  hand  on  the  table 
with  a  feverish  force  that  made  the  room  ring. 

"  You  will  not  be  so  pitiless,"  said  the  visitor  ; 
"  you  will  not  pursue  an  unfortunate  woman,  who 
never  in  her  unhappy  life  meant  any  harm." 

"In  her  unhappy  life ! — in  her  pursuit  of  a 
happy  life  at  any  cost,  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"  I  will  not  argue.  She  is  dead.  Say  she 
was  thoughtless,  fickle.  I  can't  tell.  She  did 
only  what  she  was  justified  in  doing.  She  meant 
no  harm." 

"  I  will  allow  no  one,"  cried  Mr.  Mannering, 
"  to  discuss  the  question  with  me.  Your  client,  I 
understand,  is  dead. — it  was  proper,  perhaps,  that 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  217 

!  should  know, — and  has  left  a  fortune  to  my 
daughter.  Well,  I  refuse  it.  There  is  no  occa- 
sion for  further  parley.  I  refuse  it.  Dora,  show 
this  gentleman  downstairs." 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  said,"  said  the 
visitor,  rising,  "  you  have  not  the  power  to  refuse 
it.  It  is  vested  in  trustees,  of  whom  I  am  one. 
The  young  lady  herself  may  take  any  foolish  step 
< — if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so — when  she  comes 
of  age.  But  you  have  not  the  power  to  do  this. 
The  allowance  to  be  made  to  her  during  her 
minority  and  all  other  particulars  will  be  settled  as 
soon  as  the  arrangements  are  sufficiently  advanced." 

•*  I  tell  you  that  I  refuse  it,"  repeated  Mr. 
Mannering. 

'•  And  I  repeat  that  you  have  no  power  to  do 
so.  I  leave  her  the  directions  in  respect  to  the 
other  event,  in  which  you  have  full  power.  I  im- 
plore you  to  use  it  mercifully,"  the  visitor  said. 

He  went  away  without  any  further  farewell — 
Mannering,  not  moving,  sitting  at  the  table  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  empty  air.  Dora,  who  had 
followed  the  conversation  with  astonished  uncom- 
prehension,  but  with  an  acute  sense  of  the  incivil- 
ity with  which  the  stranger  had  been  treated, 
hurried  to  open  the  door  for  him,  to  offer  him  her 
hand,  to  make  what  apologies  were  possible. 

'*  Father  has  been  very  ill,"  she  said.  '*  He 
nearly  died.  This  is  the  first  time  he  has  been 
out  of  his  room.  I  don't  understand  what  it  all 
means,  but  please  do  not  think  he  is  uncivil.  He 
is  excited,  and  still  ill  and  weak.  I  never  in  my 
life  saw  him  rude  to  any  one  before," 


21$  A  House  in  Bloomshury, 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  pausing 
outside  the  door  ;  "  I  can  make  allowances.  You 
and  I  may  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  each  other, 
Miss  Dora.  I  hope  you  will  have  confidence  in 
mer 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  all  means,"  Dora  said, 

*'No,  but  some  day  you  will;  and  in  the  mean- 
time remember  that  som.e  one,  who  has  the  best 
right  to  do  so,  has  left  you  a  great  deal  of  money, 
and  that  whenever  you  want  anything,  or  even 
wish  for  anything,  you  must  come  to  me." 

"A  great  deal  of  money?"  Dora  said.  She  had 
heard  him  speak  of  a  fortune — a  considerable  for- 
tune, but  the  words  had  not  struck  her  as  these 
did.  A  great  deal  of  money  ?  And  money  was 
all  that  was  wanted  to  make  everything  smooth, 
and  open  out  vistas  of  peace  and  pleasure,  where 
all  had  been  trouble  and  care.  The  sudden  light- 
ing up  of  her  countenance  was  as  if  the  sun  had 
come  out  all  at  once  from  among  the  clouds.  The 
old  gentleman,  who,  like  so  many  old  gentlemen, 
entertained  cynical  views,  chuckled  to  see  that 
even  at  this  youthful  age,  and  in  Mannering's 
daughter,  who  had  refused  it  so  fiercely,  the 
name  of  a  great  deal  of  money  should  light 
up  a  girl's  face.  "They  are  all  alike,"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  went  downstairs. 

When  Dora  returned  to  the  room,  she  found 
her  father  as  she  had  left  him,  staring  straighf 
before  him,  seeing  nothing,  his  head  supported  on 
his  hands,  his  hollow  eyes  fixed.  He  did  not 
notice  her  return,  as  he  had  not  noticed  her  absence. 
What  was  she  to  do?     One  of  those  crises  had 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  219 

arrived  which  are  so  petty,  yet  so  important, 
when  the  wisest  of  women  are  reduced  to  semi- 
imbecility  by  an  emergency  not  contemplated  in 
any  moral  code.  It  was  time  for  him  to  take  his 
beef  tea.  The  doctor  had  commanded  that  under 
no  circumstances  was  this  duty  to  be  omitted  or 
postponed  ;  but  who  could  have  foreseen  such  cir- 
cumstances as  these,  in  which  evidently  matters  of 
life  and  death  were  going  through  his  mind  }  After 
such  an  agitating  interview  he  wanted  it  more  and 
more,  the  nourishment  upon  which  his  recovery 
depended.  But  how  suggest  it  to  a  man  whose 
mind  was  gone  away  into  troubled  roamings 
through  the  past,  or  still  more  troubled  questions 
about  the  future,"*  It  could  have  been  no  small 
matters  that  had  been  brought  back  to  Mr. 
Mannering's  mind  by  that  strange  visit.  Dora, 
who  was  not  weak-minded,  trembled  to  approach 
him  with  any  prosaic,  petty  suggestion.  And  yet 
how  did  she  dare  to  pass  it  by?  Dora  went 
about  the  room  very  quietly,  longing  to  rouse  yet 
unwilling  to  disturb  him.  How  was  she  to  speak 
of  such  a  small  matter  as  his  beef  tea  ."*  And  yet 
it  was  not  a  small  matter  She  heard  Gilchrist 
go  into  the  other  room,  bringing  it  all  ready  on 
the  little  tray,  and  hurried  thither  to  inquire  what 
that  experienced  woman  would  advise.  "He  has 
had  some  one  to  see  him  about  business.  He  has 
been  very  much  put  out,  dreadfully  disturbed.  I 
don't  know  how  to  tell  you  how  much.  His 
mind  is  full  of  some  dreadful  thing  I  don't  under- 
stand. How  can  I  ask  him  to  take  his  beef 
tea?     And  yet  he  must  want  it.     He  is  looking 


220  A  House  in  Bloomsbufy. 

so  ill.  He  is  so  worn  out  Oh,  Gilchrist,  what 
am  I  to  do  ? " 

"  It  is  just  a  very  hard  question,  Miss  Dora. 
He  should  not  have  seen  any  person  on  business. 
He's  no'  in  a  fit  state  to  see  anybody  the  first  day 
he  is  out  of  his  bedroom :  though,  for  my  part,  I 
think  he  might  have  been  out  of  his  bedroom 
three  or  four  days  ago,"  Gilchrist  said. 

'*  As  if  that  was  the  question  now !  The  ques- 
tion is  about  the  beef  tea.  Can  I  go  and  say, 
'  Father,  never  mind  whatever  has  happened, 
there  is  nothing  so  important  as  your  beef  tea '  ? 
Can  I  tell  him  that  everything  else  may  come  and 
go,  but  that  beef  tea  runs  on  for  ever  ?  Oh,  Gil- 
christ, you  are  no  good  at  all !     Tell  me  what  to  do." 

Dora  could  not  help  being  light-hearted, 
though  it  was  in  the  present  circumstances  so 
inappropriate,  when  she  thought  of  that  "great 
deal  of  money" — money  that  would  sweep  all  bills 
away,  that  would  make  almost  everything  possible. 
That  consciousness  lightened  more  and  more  upon 
her,  as  she  saw  the  little  bundle  of  bills  carefully 
labelled  and  tied  up,  which  she  had  intended  to  re- 
move surreptitiously  from  her  father's  room  while 
he  was  out  of  it.  With  what  comfort  and  satis- 
faction could  she  remove  them  now ! 

"Just  put  it  down  on  the  table  by  his  side, 
Miss  Dora,"  said  Gilchrist.  "  Say  no  word,  just 
put  it  there  within  reach  of  his  hand.  Maybe  he 
will  fly  out  at  you,  and  ask  if  you  think  there's 
nothing  in  the  world  so  important  as  your  con- 
founded  But  no,  he  will  not  say  that ;  he's  no' 

a  man  that  gets  relief  in  that  way.     But,  on  the 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  221 

other  hand,  he  will  maybe  just  be  conscious  thai 
there's  a  good  smell,  and  he  will  feel  he's  wanting 
something,  and  he  will  drink  it  off  without  more 
ado.  But  do  not,  Miss  Dora,  whatever  you  do, 
let  more  folk  on  business  bother  your  poor  papaw, 
for  I  could  not  answer  for  what  might  come  of  it 
You  had  better  let  me  sit  here  on  the  watch,  and 
see  that  nobody  comes  near  the  door." 

"  I  will  do  what  you  say,  and  you  can  do  what 
you  like,"  said  Dora.  She  could  almost  have 
danced  along  the  passage.  Poor  lady  from 
America,  who  was  dead !  Dora  had  been  very 
sorry.  She  had  been  much  troubled  by  the  in- 
terview about  her  which  she  did  not  understand  : 
but  even  if  father  were  pitiless,  which  was 
so  incredible,  it  could  do  that  poor  woman  no 
harm  now :  and  the  money — money  which  would  be 
deliverance,  which  would  pay  all  the  bills,  and 
leave  the  quarter's  money  free  to  go  to  the  country 
with,  to  go  abroad  with !  Dora  had  to  tone  her 
countenance  down,  not  to  look  too  guiltily  glad 
when  she  went  in  to  where  her  father  was  sitting 
in  the  same  abstraction  and  gloom.  But  this  time 
he  observed  her  entrance,  looking  up  as  if  he  had 
been  waiting  for  her.  She  had  barely  time  to 
follow  Gilchrist's  directions  when  he  stretched  out 
his  hand  and  took  hers,  drav/ing  her  near  to  him. 
He  was  very  grave  and  psile,  but  no  longer  so 
terrible  as  before. 

"  Dora,"  he  said,  "  how  often  have  you  seen 
this  lady  of  whom  I  have  heard  to-day  ?  " 

"Twice,  father;  once  in  Miss  Bethune's  room, 
where  she  had  come.  I  don't  know  how." 


222  A  Hotise  in  Bloo7nsbury. 

"In  this  house  ?  "  he  said  with  a  strong  quiver, 
sirhich  Dora  felt,  as  if  it  had  been  communicated 
to  herself. 

"And  the  night  before  last,  when  Miss 
Bethune  took  me  to  where  she  was  living,  a  long 
way  off,  by  Hyde  Park.  I  knelt  at  the  bed  a  long  ' 
time,  and  then  they  put  me  in  a  chair.  She  said 
many  things  1  did  not  understand — but  chiefly," 
Dora  said,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears — the  scene 
seemed  to  come  before  her  more  touchingly  in 
recollection  than  when,  to  her  wonder  and  dismay, 
it  took  place,  "  chiefly  that  she  loved  me,  that 
she  had  wanted  me  all  my  life,  and  that  she 
wished  for  me  above  everything  before  she 
died." 

'•  And  then  ? "  he  said,  with  a  catch  in  his 
breath. 

"  I  don't  know,  father ;  I  was  so  confused  and 
dizzy  with  being  there  so  long.  All  of  a  sudden 
they  took  me  away,  and  the  others  all  came  round 
the  bed.  And  then  there  was  nothing  more. 
Miss  Bethune  brought  me  home.  I  understood 
s:hat  the  lady — that  my  poor — my  poor  aunt — if 
that  is  what  she  was — was  dead.  Oh,  fadier, 
whatever  she  did,  forgive  her  now  !  " 

Dora  for  the  moment  had  forgotten  every- » 
thing  but  the  pity  and  the  wonder,  which  she 
only  now  began  to  realise  for  the  first  time,  of 
that  strange  scene.  She  saw,  as  if  for  the  first 
time,  the  dark  room,  the  twinkling  lights,  the 
ineflable  smile  upon  the  d)ing  face  :  and  her  big 
tears  fell  fast  upon  her  father's  hand,  which  held 
hers  in  a  trembling  grasp.     The  quiver  that  was 


A  House  in  Bioomsbury.  22;^ 

in  him  ran  through  and  through  her,  so  that  she 
trembled  too. 

"Dora,"  he  said,  "perhaps  you  ought  to 
know,  as  that  man  said.  The  lady  was  not  your 
aunt :  she  was  your  mother  —  my  "  —  there 
seemed  a  convulsion  in  his  throat,  as  though  he 
could  not  pronounce  the  word — "  my  wife.  And 
yet  she  was  not  to  blame,  as  the  world  judges. 
i  went  on  a  long  expedition  after  you  were 
born,  leaving  her  very  young  still,  and  poor. 
I  did  not  mean  her  to  be  poor.  I  did  not 
mean  to  be  long  away.  But  I  went  to  Africa, 
which  is  terrible  enough  now,  but  was  far  more 
terrible  in  those  days.  I  fell  ill  again  and 
again.  I  was  left  behind  for  dead.  I  was 
lost  in  those  dreadful  v/ilds.  It  was  more 
than  three  years  before  I  came  to  the  light  of  day 
at  all,  and  it  seemed  a  hundred.  I  had  been 
given  up  by  everybody.  The  money  had  failed 
her,  her  people  were  poor,  the  Museum  gave  her 
a  small  allowance  as  to  the  widow  of  a  man  killed 
in  its  service.  And  there  was  another  man  who 
loved  her.  They  meant  no  harm,  it  is  true.  She 
did  nothing  that  was  wrong.  She  married  him, 
thinking  I  was  dead." 

"Father!"  Dora  cried,  clasping  his  arm  with 
both  her  hands :  his  other  arm  supported  his 
head. 

"It  was  a  pity  that  I  was  not  dead — that  was 
the  pity.  If  I  had  known,  I  should  never  have 
come  back  to  put  everything  wrong.  But  I 
never  heard  a  word  till  I  came  back.  And  she 
would  act  face  me — never.     She  fied  as  if  she 


224  ^  House  vn  Bloomsbury, 

had  been  guilty.  She  was  not  guilty,  you  know. 
She  had  only  married  again,  which  the  best  of 
women  do.  She  fled  by  herself  at  first,  leaving 
you  to  me.  She  said  it  was  all  she  could  do,  but 
that  she  never,  never  could  look  me  in  the  face 
again.  It  has  not  been  that  I  could  not  forgive 
her,  Dora.  No,  but  we  could  not  look  each 
other  in  the  face  again." 

**  Is  it  she,"  said  Dora,  struggling  to  speak- 
"whose  picture  is  in  your  cabinet,  on  its  face? 
May  I  take  it,  father?  I  should  like  to  have 
it" 

He  put  his  other  arm  round  her  and  pressed 
her  close.  "  And  after  this,"  he  said,  "  my  little 
girl,  we  will  never  say  a  word  on  this  subject 
again." 


CHAPTER  XIX, 

The  little  old  gentleman  had  withdrawn  from  the 
apartment  of  the  Mannerings  very  quietly,  leaving 
all  that  excitement  and  commotion  behind  him  ; 
but  he  did  not  leave  in  this  way  the  house  in 
Bloomsbury.  He  went  downstairs  cautiously  and 
quietly,  though  why  he  should  have  done  so  he 
could  not  himself  have  told,  since,  had  he  made 
all  the  noise  in  the  world,  it  could  have  had  no 
effect  upon  the  matter  in  hand  in  either  case. 
Then  he  knocked  at  Miss  Bethune's  door.  When 
he  was  bidden  to  enter,  he  opened  the  door  gently, 
with  great  precaution,  and  going  in,  closed  it  with 
equal  care  behind  him. 

"  I  am  speaking,  I  think,  to  Mrs.  Gordon 
Grant  ?  "  he  said. 

Miss  Bethune  was  alone.  She  had  many 
things  to  thmk  of,  and  very  likely  the  book  which 
she  seemed  to  be  reading  was  not  much  more  than 
a  pretence  to  conceal  her  thoughts.  It  fell  down 
upon  her  lap  at  these  words,  and  she  looked  at  her 
questioner  with  a  gasp,  unable  to  make  any  reply. 

"  Mrs.  Gordon  Grant,  I  believe  ?  "  he  said 
again,  then  made  a  step  farther  into  the  room. 
"  Pardon  me  for  startling  you,  there  is  no  one 
here.  I  am  a  solicitor,  John  Templar,  of  Gray's 
Inn.  Precautions  taken  with  other  persons  need 
(225)  1 5 


2  26  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 


not  apply  to  me.  You  are  Mrs.  Gordon  Grant,  1 
know. 

"  I  have  never  borne  that  name,"  she  said, 
very  pale.     "Janet  Bethune,  that  is  my  name." 

"  Not  as  signed  to  a  document  which  is  in  my 
possession.  You  will  pardon  me,  but  this  is  no 
doing  of  mine.  You  witnessed  Mrs.  Bristow's 
will  ?  " 

She  gave  a  slight  nod  with  her  head  in  acqui- 
escence. 

"  And  then,  to  my  great  surprise,  I  found  this 
name,   which   I    have   been  in   search    of  for  so 

long." 

"  You  have  been  in  search  of  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  for  many  years.  The  skill  with  which 
you  have  concealed  it  is  wonderful.  I  have 
advertised,  even.  I  have  sought  the  help  of  old 
friends  who  must  see  you  often,  who  come  to  you 
here  even,  I  know.  But  I  never  found  the  name 
I  was  in  search  of,  never  till  the  other  day  at  the 
signing  of  Mrs.  Bristow's  will — which,  by  the 
v/ay,"  he  said,  "  that  young  fellow  might  have 
signed  safely  enough,  for  he  has  no  share  in  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  has  left  him 
nothing — nothing,  Mr.  Templar.'*  The  boy  that 
was  like  her  son  !  " 

"  Not  a  penny,"  said  the  old  gentleman — "  not 
a  penny.  Everything  has  gone  the  one  way — 
perhaps  it  was  not  wonderful — to  her  own  child." 

"  I  could  not  have  done  that !  "  cried  the  lady, 
**  Oh,  I  could  not  have  done  it !  I  would  have 
felt  it  would  bring  a  curse  upon  my  own  child." 

"  Perhaps,  madam,  you  never  had  a  child  of 


A  House  in  BlQcnnsbury,  2^^^' 


/ 


your  own,  which  would  make  all  the  difference/' 
he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  again,  silent,  with  her  lips 
pressed  very  closely  together,  and  a  kind  of 
defiance  in  her  eyes. 

"But  this,"  he  said  again,  softly,  "is  no 
answer  to  my  question.  You  were  a  witness  of 
Mrs.  Bristow's  will,  and  you  signed  a  certain 
name  to  it  You  cannot  have  done  so  hoping  to 
vitiate  the  document  by  a  feigned  name.  It 
would  have  been  perfectly  futile  to  begin  with, 
and  no  woman  could  have  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
That  was,  I  presume,  your  lawful  name  ?  " 

"It  is  a  name  I  have  never  borne  ;  that  you 
A^ill  very  easily  ascertain." 

*'  Still  it  is  your  name,  or  why  should  you 
have  signed  it — in  inadvertence,  I  suppose  i  " 

*'  Not  certainly  in  inadvertence.  Has  any- 
thing ever  made  it  familiar  to  me?  If  you  will 
know,  I  had  my  reasons.  I  thought  the  sight  of 
it  might  put  things  in  a  lawyer's  hands,  would 
maybe  guide  inquiries,  would  miake  easier  an 
object  of  my  own." 

"That  object,"  said  Mr.  Templar,  "was  to 
discover  your  husband  .'*  " 

She  half  rose  to  her  feet,  flushed  and  angry. 

**  Who  said  I  had  a  husband,  or  that  to  find 
him  or  lose  him  was  anything  to  me  ?  "  Then, 
with  a  strong  effort,  she  reseated  herself  in  her 
chair.  "That  was  a  bold  guess,"  she  said,  "Mr. 
Templar,  not  to  say  a  little  insulting,  don't  you 
think,  to  a  respectable  single  lady  that  has  never 
had  a  finger  lifted  upon   her.-*     I    am  of  a  well- 


228  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

known  race  enough.  I  have  never  concealed 
myself.  There  are  plenty  of  people  in  Scotland 
who  will  give  you  full  details  of  me  and  all  my 
ways.  It  is  not  like  a  lawyer — a  cautious  man^ 
bound  by  his  profession  to  be  careful — to  make 
such  a  strange  attempt  upon  me." 

"  I  make  no  attempt.  I  only  ask  a  questioOj 
and  one  surely  most  justifiable.  You  did  not 
sign  a  name  to  which  you  had  no  right,  on  so 
important  a  document  as  a  will ;  therefore  you 
are  Mrs.  Gordon  Grant,  and  a  person  to  whom 
for  many  years  I  have  had  a  statement  to  make." 

She  looked  at  him  again  with  a  dumb  rigidity 
of  aspect,  but  said  not  a  word. 

"  The  communication  I  had  to  make  to  you," 
he  said,  "  was  of  a  death — not  one,  so  far  as  I 
know,  that  could  bring  you  any  advantage,  or 
harm  either,  I  suppose.  I  may  say  that  it  took 
place  years  ago.  I  have  no  reason,  either,  to 
suppose  that  it  would  be  the  cause  of  any  deep 
sorrow." 

"  Sorrow  ? "  she  said,  but  her  lips  were  dry, 
and  could  articulate  no  more, 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  reasons  for 
having  kept  your  marriage  so  profound  a  secret,'' 
he  said.  "  The  result  has  naturally  been  the  long 
delay  of  a  piece  of  information  which  perhaps 
would  have  been  welcome  to  you.  Mrs.  Grant, 
your  husband,  George  Gordon  Grant,  died  nearly 
twenty  years  ago." 

*'  Twenty  years  ago !  "  she  cried,  with  a  start, 
"twenty  years?"  Then  she  raised  her  voice 
suddenly  and  cried,  "  Gilchrist !  "    She  was  very 


A  House  in  Bloomsbufy.  229 

palcj  and  her  excitement  great,  her  eyes  gleaming, 
her  nerves  quivering.  She  paid  no  attention  to 
ihe  little  lawyer,  who  on  his  side  observed  her  so 
dosely.  "  Gilchrist,"  she  said,  when  the  maid 
came  in  hurriedly  from  the  inner  room  in  which 
she  had  been,  "we  have  often  wondered  why  there 
was  no  sign  of  him  when  I  came  into  my  fortune. 
The  reason  is  he  was  dead  before  my  uncle  died." 

'*  Dead  ?  "  said  Gilchrist,  and  put  up  at  once 
her  apron  to  her  eyes,  "  dead  ?  Oh,  mem,  that 
bonnie  young  man !  " 

**  Yes,"  said  Miss  Bethune.  She  rose  up  and 
began  to  move  about  the  room  in  great  excite- 
ment *'  Yes,  he  would  still  be  a  bonnie  young 
man  then — oh,  a  bonnie  young  man,  as  his  son  is 
now.  I  wondered  how  it  was  he  made  no  sign. 
Before,  it  was  natural :  but  when  my  uncle  was 
dead — when  I  had  come  into  my  fortune !  That 
explains  it — that  explains  it  all.  He  was  dead 
before  the  day  he  had  reckoned  on  came." 

*'  Oh,  dinna  say  that,  now  I  *'  cried  Gilchrist. 
"  How  can  we  tell  if  it  was  the  day  he  had 
reckoned  on  ?  Why  might  it  no'  be  your  comfort 
he  was  aye  thinking  of — that  you  might  lose 
nothing,  that  your  uncle  might  keep  his  faith  in 
you,  that  your  fortune  might  be  safe  }  " 

"  Ay,  that  my  fortune  might  be  safe,  that  was 
the  one  thing.  What  did  it  matter  about  me.-* 
Only  a  woman  that  was  so  silly  as  to  believe  in 
him — and  believed  in  him,  God  help  me,  long 
after  he  had  proved  what  he  was.  Gilchrist,  go 
down  on  your  knees  and  thank  God  that  he  did 
not  live  to  cheat  us  more,  to  come  when  you  and 


230  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

me  made  sure  he  would  come,  and  fleece  us  with 
his  fair  face  and  his  fair  ways,  till  he  had  got 
what  he  wanted, — the  filthy  money  which  was  the 
end  of  all." 

*•  Oh,  mem,"  cried  Gilchrist,  again  weeping, 
"dinna  say  that  now.  Even  if  it  were  true, 
which  the  Lord  forbid,  dinna  say  it  now  ! " 

But  her  mistress  was  not  to  be  controlled. 
The  stream  of  recollection,  of  pent-up  feeling,  the 
brooding  of  a  lifetime,  set  free  by  this  sudden 
discovery  of  her  story,  which  was  like  the  break- 
ing down  of  a  dyke  to  a  river,  rushed  forth  like 
that  river  in  flood.  "  I  have  thought  many  a 
time,"  she  cried, — "when  my  heart  was  sick  of 
the  silence,  when  I  still  trembled  that  he  would 
come,  and  wished  he  would  come  for  all  that  I 
knew,  like  a  fool  woman  that  I  am,  as  all  women 
are, — that  maybe  his  not  coming  was  a  sign  of 
grace,  that  he  had  maybe  forgotten,  maybe  been 
untrue ;  but  that  it  was  not  at  least  the  money,  the 
money  and  nothing  more.  To  know  that  I  had 
that  accursed  siller  and  not  to  come  for  it  was  a 
sign  of  grace  I  was  a  kind  of  glad.  But  it  was 
not  that !  "  she  cried,  pacing  to  and  fro  like  a 
wild  creature, — "  it  was  not  that !  He  would 
have  come,  oh,  and  explained  everything,  made 
everything  clear,  and  told  me  to  my  face  it  was 
for  my  sake! — if  it  had  not  been  that  death 
stepped  in  and  disappointed  him  as  he  had  dis- 
appointed me ! " 

Mist  Bethune  ended  with  a  harsh  laugh,  and 
after  a  moment  seated  herself  again  in  her  chair. 
The  tempest  of  personal  feeling  had  carried  her 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  231 

away,  quenching  even  the  other  and  yet  stronger 
sentiment,  which  for  so  many  years  had  been  the 
passion  of  her  life.  She  had  been  suddenly, 
strangely  driven  back  to  a  period  which  even  now, 
in  her  sober  middle  age,  it  was  a  kind  of  madness 
to  think  of — the  years  which  she  had  lived  through 
in  awful  silence,  a  wife  yet  no  wife,  a  mother  yet  no 
mother,  cut  off  from  everything  but  the  monoton- 
ous, prolonged,  unending  formula  of  a  girlhood 
out  of  date,  the  life  without  individuality,  without 
meaning,  and  without  hope,  of  a  large-minded  and 
active  woman,  kept  to  the  rdle  of  a  child,  in  a 
house  where  there  was  not  even  affection  to 
sweeten  it.  The  recollection  of  those  terrible, 
endless,  changeless  days,  running  into  years  as 
indistinguishable,  the  falsehood  of  every  circum- 
stance and  appearance,  the  secret  existence  of  love 
and  sacrifice,  of  dread  knowledge  and  disenchant- 
ment, of  strained  hope  and  failing  illusion,  and 
final  and  awful  despair,  of  which  Gilchrist  alone 
knew  anything, — Gilchrist,  the  faithful  servant, 
the  sole  companion  of  her  heart, — came  back 
upon  her  with  all  that  horrible  sense  of  tiie  in- 
tolerable which  such  a  martyrdom  brings.  She 
had  borne  it  in  its  day — how  had  she  borne  it  i" 
Was  it  possible  that  a  woman  couid  go  through 
that  and  live }  her  heart  torn  from  her  bosom,  her 
baby  torn  from  her  side,  and  no  one,  no  one  but 
Gilchrist,  to  keep  a  little  life  alive  in  her  heart ! 
And  it  had  lasted  for  years — many,  many,  many 
years, — all  the  years  of  her  life,  except  those  first 
twenty  which  tell  for  so  little.  In  that  rush  of 
passion    she   did   not   know    how    time    passed, 


23*  ^  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

whether  it  was  five  minutes  or  an  hour  that  she 
sat  under  the  inspection  of  the  old  lawyer,  whom 
this  puzzle  of  humanity  filled  with  a  sort  of  pro- 
fessional interest,  and  who  did  not  think  it  neces- 
sary to  withdraw,  or  had  any  feeling  of  intrusion 
upon  the  sufferer.  It  was  not  really  a  long  time, 
though  it  might  have  been  a  year,  when  she 
roused  herself  and  took  hold  of  her  forces,  and  the 
dread  panorama  rolled  away. 

Gradually  the  familiar  things  around  her  came 
back.  She  remembered  herself,  no  despairing  girl, 
no  soul  in  bondage,  but  a  sober  woman,  disen- 
chanted in  many  ways,  but  never  yet  cured  of 
those  hopes  and  that  faith  which  hold  the  ardent 
spirit  to  life.  Her  countenance  changed  with  her 
thoughts,  her  eyes  ceased  to  be  abstracted  and 
visionary,  her  colour  came  back.  She  turned  to 
the  old  gentleman  with  a  look  which  for  the  first 
time  disturbed  and  bewildered  that  old  and  hard- 
ened spectator  of  the  vicissitudes  of  life.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  a  curious  liquid  light,  an  expression 
wistful,  flattering,  entreating.  She  looked  at  him 
as  a  child  looks  who  has  a  favour  to  ask,  her  head 
a  little  on  one  side,  her  lips  quivering  with  a  smile. 
There  came  into  the  old  lawyer's  mind,  he  could 
not  tell  how,  a  ridiculous  sense  of  being  a  superior 
being,  a  kind  of  god,  able  to  confer  untold  advan- 
tages and  favours.  What  did  the  woman  want  of 
him?  What — it  did  not  matter  what  she  wanted — 
could  he  do  for  her  ?  Nothing  that  he  was  aware 
of:  and  a  sense  of  the  danger  of  being  cajoled  came 
into  his  mind,  but  along  with  that,  which  was 
ridiculous,  though  he  could  not  help  it,  a  sense  of 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  233 

being  really  a  superior  being,  able  to  grant  favours, 
and  benignant,  as  he  had  never  quite  known  him- 
self to  be. 

"Mr.  Templar,"  she  said,  "now  all  is  over 
there  is  not  another  word  to  say :  and  now  the 
boy — -my  boy " 

"  The  boy  ? "  he  repeated,  with  a  surprised  air. 

"  My  child  that  was  taken  from  me  as  soon  as 
he  was  born,  my  little  helpless  bairn  that  never 
knew  his  mother — my  son,  my  son !  Give  me  a 
right  to  him,  give  me  my  lawful  title  to  him,  and 
there  can  be  no  more  doubt  about  it — that  nobody 
may  say  he  is  not  mine." 

The  old  lawyer  was  more  confused  than  words 
could  say.  The  very  sense  she  had  managed  to 
convey  to  his  mind  of  being  a  superior  being,  full 
of  graces  and  gifts  to  confer,  made  his  downfall 
the  more  ludicrous  to  himself.  He  seemed  to 
tumble  down  from  an  altitude  quite  visionary,  yet 
very  real,  as  if  by  some  neglect  or  ill-will  of  his 
own.  He  felt  himself  humiliated,  a  culprit  before 
her.  "My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  " you  are  going 
too  fast  and  too  far  for  me.  I  did  not  even  know 
there  was  any  — —  Stop  I  I  think  I  begin  to 
remember." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  breathless, — "  yes ! "  looking 
at  him  with  supplicating  eyes. 

"  Now  it  comes  back  to  me,"  he  said.  "  I — I 
— am  afraid  I  gave  it  no  importance.  There  was 
a  baby — yes,  a  little  thing  a  fev«7  weeks,  or  a  few 
months  old — that  died." 

She  sprang  up  again  once  more  to  her  feet, 
menacing,  terrible.     She  v/as  bigger,  stronger,  far 


234  -<4  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

more  full  of  life,  than  he  was.  She  towered  over 
him,  her  face  full  of  tragic  passion.  **  It  is  not 
true — it  is  not  true ! "   she  cried. 

"  My  dear  lady,  how  can  I  know  ?  What  can 
I  do  ?  I  can  but  tell  you  the  instructions  given 
to  me ;  it  had  slipped  out  of  my  mind,  it  seemed 
of  little  importance  in  comparison.  A  baby  that 
was  too  delicate  to  bear  the  separation  from  its 
mother — I  remember  it  all  now.  I  am  very  sorry, 
very  sorry,  if  I  have  conveyed  any  false  hopes  to 
your  mind.  The  baby  died  not  long  after  it  was 
taken  away." 

"It  is  not  true,"  Miss  Bethune  said,  with  a 
hoarse  and  harsh  voice.  After  the  excitement 
and  passion,  she  stood  like  a  figure  cut  out  of 
stone.  This  statement,  so  calm  and  steady, 
struck  her  like  a  blow.  Her  lips  denied,  but  her 
heart  received  the  cruel  news.  It  may  be  neces- 
sary to  explain  good  fortune,  but  misery  comes 
with  its  own  guarantee.  It  struck  her  like  a 
sword,  like  a  scythe,  shearing  down  her  hopes. 
She  rose  into  a  brief  blaze  of  fury,  denying  it. 
**  Oh,  you  think  I  will  believe  that  ? "  she  cried, 
— "  me  that  have  followed  him  in  my  thoughts 
through  every  stage,  have  seen  him  grow  and 
blossom,  and  come  to  be  a  man  !  Do  vou  think 
there  would  have  been  no  angel  to  stop  me  in  my 
vain  imaginations,  no  kind  creature  in  heaven  or 
earth  that  would  have  breathed  into  my  heart  and 
said,  '  Go  on  no  more,  hope  no  more ' }  Oh  no — 
oh  no !  Heaven  is  not  like  that,  nor  earth !  Pain 
comes  and  trouble,  but  not  cruel  fate.  No,  I  do  not 
believe  it — I  will  not  believe  it  i     It  is  not  true," 


A  IIous€  in  Bloomsbury,  235 

"  My  dear  lady,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  dis- 
tressed 

'*  I  am  no  dear  lady  to  you.  I  am  nothing  to 
you.  I  am  a  poor,  deserted,  heartbroken  woman, 
that  have  lived  false,  false,  but  never  meant  it : 
that  have  had  no  one  to  stand  by  me,  to  help  me 
out  of  it.  And  now  you  sit  there  calm,  and  look 
me  in  the  face,  and  take  away  my  son.  My  baby 
first  was  taken  from  me,  forced  out  of  my  arms, 
new-born:  and  now  you  take  the  boy  I've  fol- 
lov/ed  with  my  heart  these  long,  long  years,  the 
bonnie  lad,  the  young  man  I've  seen.  I  tell  you 
I've  seen  him,  then.  How  can  a  mother  be  de- 
ceived .•*  We've  seen  him,  both  Gilchrist  and  me. 
Ask  her,  if  you  doubt  my  word.  We  have  seen 
him,  can  any  lie  stand  against  that?  And  my 
heart  has  spoken,  and  his  heart  has  spoken ;  we 
have  sought  each  other  in  the  dark,  and  taken 
hands.  I  know  him  by  his  bonnie  eyes,  and  a 
trick  in  his  mouth  that  is  just  my  father  over 
again  :  and  he  knows  me  by  nature,  and  the  touch 
of  kindly  blood." 

"  Oh,  mem,"  Gilchrist  cried,  '*  I  warned  ye — I 
warned  ye !  What  is  a  likeness  to  lippen  to  ? 
And  I  never  saw  it,"  the  woman  said,  with  tears. 

"  And  who  asked  ye  to  see  it,  or  thought  ye 
could  see  it,  a  serving-woman,  not  a  drop's  blood 
to  him  or  to  me?  It  would  be  a  bonnie  thing," 
said  Miss  Bethune,  pausing,  looking  round,  as  if 
to  appeal  to  an  unseen  audience,  with  an  almost 
smile  of  scorn,  **  if  my  hired  woman's  word  was  to 
be  taken  instead  of  his  mother's.  Did  she  bear 
him  in  pain  and  anguish  ?     Did  she  wait  for  him, 


23^  -^  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

lying  dreaming,  month  after  month,  that  he  was 
to  cure  all  ?  She  got  him  in  her  arms  when  he 
was  born,  but  he  had  been  in  mine  for  long  before ; 
he  had  grown  a  man  in  my  heart  before  ever  he 
saw  the  light  of  day.  Oh,  ask  her,  and  there  is 
many  a  fable  she  will  tell  ye.  But  me ! " — she 
calmed  down  again,  a  smile  came  upon  her  face,— 
"  I  have  seen  my  son.  Now,  as  I  have  nobody 
but  him,  he  has  nobody  but  me :  and  I  m.ean  from 
this  day  to  take  him  home  and  acknowledge  him 
before  all  the  world." 

Mr.  Templar  had  risen,  and  stood  with  his 
hand  on  the  back  of  his  chair.  **  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say,"  he  said.  "  If  I  can  be  of  any  use  to 
you  in  any  way,  command  me,  madam.  It  is  no 
wish  of  mine  to  take  any  comfort  from  you,  or 
even  to  dispel  any  pleasing  illusion." 

*'  As  if  you  could ! "  she  said,  rising  again; 
proud  and  smiling.  "As  if  any  old  lawyer's 
words,  as  dry  as  dust,  could  shake  my  conviction, 
or  persuade  me  out  of  what  is  a  certainty.  It  is  a 
certainty.  Seeing  is  believing,  the  very  vulgar 
say.  And  I  have  seen  him — do  you  think  you 
could  make  me  believe  after  that,  that  there  is  no 
one  to  see  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  and  turned  away.  "  Good- 
morning  to  you,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  I  have  told 
you  the  truth,  but  I  cannot  make  you  believe  it, 
and  why  should  I  try.?  It  may  be  happier  for 
you  the  other  way." 

"  Happier  .>* "  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  Ay, 
because  it's  true.  Falsehood  has  been  my  fate  too 
long — I  am  happy  because  it  is  true." 


A  House  in  Bloomsoury.  237 

Miss  Bethune  sat  down  again,  when  her 
visitor  closed  the  door  behind  him.  The  triumph 
and  brightness  gradually  died  out  of  her  face. 
''What  are  you  greetin  there  for,  you  fool?"  she 
said  "  and  me  the  happiest  woman,  and  the 
proudest  mother!  Gilchrist,"  she  said,  suddenly 
turning  round  upon  her  maid,  **  the  woman  that  is 
dead  was  a  we?.k  creature,  bound  hand  and  foot 
all  her  life.  She  meant  no  harm,  poor  thing,  I 
will  allow,  but  yet  she  broke  one  man's  life  in 
pieces,  and  it  must  have  been  a  poor  kind  of 
happiness  she  gave  the  other,  with  her  heart 
always  straying  after  another  man's  bairn.  And 
I've  done  nothing,  nothing  to  injure  any  mortal. 
I  was  true  till  I  could  be  true  no  longer,  till  he 
showed  all  he  was  ;  and  true  I  have  been  in  spite 
of  that  all  my  life,  and  endured  and  never  said  a 
word.  Do  you  think  it's  possible,  possible  that 
yon  woman  should  be  rewarded  with  her  child  in 
her  arms,  and  her  soul  satisfied!* — and  me  left 
desolate,  with  my  very  imaginations  torn  from  me, 
torn  out  of  me,  and  my  heart  left  bleeding,  and  all 
my  thoughts  turned  into  lies,  like  myself,  that 
have  been  no  better  than  a  lie  } — turned  into  lies  }  " 

"Oh,  mem!"  cried  Gilchrist — "oh,  my  dear 
leddy,  that  has  been  more  to  me  than  a  this 
world !  Is  it  for  me  to  say  that  it's  no'  justice  v/e 
have  to  expect,  for  we  deserve  nothing  ;  and  that 
the  Lord  knows  His  ain  reasons  ;  and  that  the 
time  will  come  when  we'll  get  it  all  back— you, 
your  bairn,  the  Lord  bless  him  !  and  me  to  see  ye 
as  happy  as  the  angels,  which  is  ail  I  ever  wanted 
or  thought  to  get  either  here  or  otherwhere  I " 


CHAPTER   XX, 

There  was  nothing  more  said  to  Mr.  Mannering 
on  the  subject  of  Mr  Templar's  mission,  neither 
did  he  himself  say  anything,  either  to  sanction  or 
prevent  his  child  from  carrying  out  the  strange 
desire  of  her  mother — her  mother !  Dora  did  not 
accept  the  thought.  She  made  a  struggle  within 
herself  to  keep  up  the  fiction  that  it  was  her 
mother's  sister — a  relation,  something  near,  yet 
ever  inferior  to  the  vision  of  a  benignant,  melan- 
choly being,  unknown,  which  a  dead  mother  so 
often  is  to  an  imaginative  girl. 

It  pleased  her  to  find,  as  she  said  to  herself, 
"no  likeness"  to  the  suffering  and  hysterical 
woman  she  had  seen,  in  that  calm,  pensive 
portrait,  which  she  instantly  secured  and  took 
possession  of — the  little  picture  which  had  lain  so 
long  buried  with  its  face  downward  in  the  secret 
drawer.  She  gazed  at  it  for  an  hour  together, 
and  found  nothing — nothing,  she  declared  to 
herself  with  indignant  satisfaction,  to  remind  her 
of  the  other  face — flushed,  weeping,  middle-aged 
— which  had  so  implored  her  affection  Had  it 
been  her  mother,  was  it  possible  that  it  should 
have  required  an  effort  to  give  that  affection? 
No !  Dora  at  sixteen  believed  very  fully  in  the 
voice  of  nature.  It  would  have  been  impossible, 
her  heart  at  once  would  have  spoken,  she  would 

(238) 


A  House  in  Blooms  bury,  239 

have  known  by  some  infallible  instinct.     She  put 
the  picture  up  in  her  own  room,  and  filled  her 
heart  with  the  luxury,  the  melancholy,  the  sadness, 
and    pleasure   of   this    possession — her   mother's 
portrait,  more  touching    to  the  imagination  than 
any  other  im.age  could  be.      But  then  there  began 
to  steal  a   little  shadow    over    Dora's   thoughts. 
She  would  not  give  up  her  determined  resistance 
to  the  idea  that  this  face  and  the  other  face,  living 
and  dying,  which  she  had  seen,  could   be  one ; 
but  when  she  raised  her  eyes  suddenly,   to  her 
mother's  picture,  a  consciousness  would  steal  over 
her,  an  involuntary  glance  of  recognition.     What 
more  likely  than  that   there  should  be  a  resem- 
blance, faint   and   far  away,  between   sister  and 
sister  ?     And  then  there  came  to  be  a  gleam  of 
reproach  to  Dora  in  those  eyes,  and  the  girl  began 
to  feel  as  if  there  was  an  irreverence,  a  want  of 
feeling,  in  turning  that  long  recluse  and  covered 
face  to  the  light  of  day,  and  carrying  on  all  the 
affairs  of  life  under  it,  as  if  it  were  a  common 
thing.     Finally  she  arranged  over  it  a  little  piece 
of  drapery,  a  morsel  of  faded  embroidered  silk 
which  was  among  her  treasures,  soft  and  faint  in 
its  colours — a  veil  which  she  could  draw  in  her 
moments  of  thinking  and   quiet,  those  moments 
which  it  would   not  be  irreverent  any  longer  to 
call   a   dead   mother  or  an   angelic   presence   to 
hallow  and  to  share. 

But  she  said  nothing  when  she  was  called  to 
Miss  Bethune's  room,  and  clad  in  mourning, 
recognising  with  a  thrill,  half  of  horror,  half  of 
pride,  the  crape  upon  her  dress  which  proved  her 


240  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

right  to  that  new  excdtation  among  human 
creatures — that  position  of  a  mourner  which  is  in 
its  way  a  step  in  life.  Dora  did  not  ask  where 
she  was  going  when  she  followed  Miss  Bethune, 
also  in  black  from  head  to  foot,  to  the  plain  little 
brougham  which  had  been  ordered  to  do  fit  and 
solemn  honour  to  the  occasion  ;  the  great  white 
wreath  and  basket  of  flowers,  which  filled  up 
the  space,  called  no  observation  from  her.  They 
drove  in  silence  to  the  great  cemetery,  with  all 
its  gay  flowers  and  elaborate  aspect  of  cheerful- 
ness. It  was  a  fine  but  cloudy  day,  warm  and 
soft,  yet  without  sunshine ;  and  Dora  had  a 
curious  sense  of  importance,  of  meaning,  as  if  she 
had  attained  an  advanced  stage  of  being.  Already 
an  experience  had  fallen  to  her  share,  more  than 
one  experience.  She  had  knelt,  troubled  and 
awe-stricken,  by  a  death-bed  ;  she  was  now  going 
to  stand  by  a  grave.  Even  where  real  sorrow 
exists,  this  curious  sorrowful  elation  of  sentiment 
is  apt  to  come  into  the  mind  of  the  very  young. 
Dora  was  deeply  impressed  by  the  circumstances 
and  the  position,  but  it  was  impossible  that  she 
could  feel  any  real  grief  Tears  came  to  her  eyes 
as  she  dropped  the  shower  of  flowers,  white  and 
lovely,  into  the  darkness  of  that  last  abode.  Her 
face  was  full  of  awe  and  pity,  but  her  breast  of 
that  vague,  inexplainable  expansion  and  growth, 
as  of  a  creature  entered  into  the  larger  develop- 
ments and  knowledge  of  life  There  were  very 
few  other  mourners.  Mr.  Templar,  the  lawyer, 
with  his  keen  but  veiled  observation  of  every- 
thing, serious  and  businesslike  ;  the  doctor,  with 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  241 

professional  gravity  and  indifference ;  Miss 
Bethune,  with  almost  stern  seriousness,  standing 
like  a  statue  in  her  black  dress  and  with  her  pale 
face.  Why  should  any  of  these  spectators  care  ? 
The  woman  was  far  the  most  moved,  thinking  of 
the  likeness  and  difference  of  her  own  fate,  of  the 
failure  of  that  life  which  was  now  over,  and  of  her 
own,  a  deeper  failure  still,  without  any  fault  of 
hers.  And  Dora,  wondering,  developing,  her 
eyes  full  of  abstract  tears,  and  her  mind  of  awe. 

Only  one  mourner  stood  pale  with  watching  and 
thought  beside  the  open  grave,  his  heart  aching 
with  loneliness  and  a  profound  natural  vacancy 
and  pain.  He  knew  that  she  had  neglected  him, 
almost  wronged  him  at  the  last,  cut  him  off,  taking 
no  thought  of  what  was  to  become  of  him.  He 
felt  even  that  in  so  doing  this  woman  was  unfaith- 
ful to  her  trust,  and  had  done  what  she  ought  not 
to  have  done.  But  all  that  mattered  nothing  in 
face  of  natural  sorrow,  natural  love.  She  had 
been  a  mother  to  him,  and  she  was  gone.  The 
ear  always  open  to  his  boyish  talk  and  confidence, 
always  ready  to  listen,  could  hear  him  no  more  ; 
and,  almost  more  poignant,  his  care  of  her  was 
over,  there  was  nothing  more  to  do  for  her,  none 
of  the  hundred  commissions  that  used  to  send  him 
flying,  the  hundred  things  that  had  to  be  done. 
His  occupation  in  life  seemed  to  be  over,  his  home, 
his  natural  place.  It  had  not  perhaps  ever  been 
a  natural  place,  but  he  had  not  felt  that  She  had 
been  his  mother,  though  no  drop  of  her  blood  ran 
in  his  veins ;  and  now  he  was  nobody's  son,  belong- 
ing to  no  family.     The  other  people  round  looked 


242  A  Ho  use  in  Bloom  saury. 

like  ghosts  to  Harry  Gordon.  They  were  part  of 
the  strange  cutting  off,  the  severance  he  already 
felt ;  none  of  them  had  anything  to  do  with  her, 
and  yet  it  was  he  who  was  pushed  out  and  put 
aside,  as  if  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  her,  the  only 
mother  he  had  ever  known  !  The  little  sharp  old 
lawyer  was  her  representative  now,  not  he  who 
had  been  her  son.  He  stood  languid,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  utter  depression,  collapse  of  soul  and 
body,  by  the  grave.  When  all  was  over,  and  the 
solemn  voice  which  sounds  as  no  other  voice  ever 
does,  falling  calm  through  the  still  air,  bidding 
earth  return  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust,  had  ceased, 
he  still  stood  as  if  unable  to  comprehend  that  all 
was  over — no  one  to  bid  him  come  awav,  no  other 
place  to  go  to.  His  brain  was  not  relieved  by 
tears,  or  his  mind  set  in  activity  by  anything  to 
do.  He  stood  there  half  stupefied,  left  behind,  in 
that  condition  when  simply  to  remain  as  we  are 
seems  the  only  thing  possible  to  us. 

Miss  Bethune  had  placed  Dora  in  the  little 
brougham,  in  rigorous  fulfilment  of  her  duty  to 
the  child.  Mr.  Templar  and  the  doctor  had  both 
departed,  the  two  other  women,  Mrs.  Bristow's 
maid  and  the  nurse  who  had  accompanied  her, 
had  driven  away :  and  still  the  young  man  stood, 
not  paying  any  attention.  Miss  Bethune  waited 
for  a  little  by  the  carriage  door.  She  did  not 
answer  the  appeal  of  the  coachman,  asking  if  he 
was  to  drive  away ;  she  said  nothing  to  Dora, 
whose  eyes  endeavoured  in  vain  to  read  the 
changes  in  her  friend's  face ;  but,  after  standing 
there  for  a  few  minutes  quite  silent,  she  suddenly 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  243 

turned  and  went  back  to  the  cemetery.  It  was 
strange  to  her  to  hesitate  in  anything  she  did, 
and  from  the  moment  she  left  the  carriage  door 
all  uncertainty  was  over.  She  went  back  with  a 
quick  step,  treading  her  way  among  the  graves, 
and  put  her  hand  upon  young  Gordon's  arm. 

•'  You  are  coming  home  with  me,"  she  said. 

The  new,  keen  voice,  irregular  and  full  of  life, 
so  unlike  the  measured  tones  to  which  he  had 
been  listening,  struck  the  young  man  uneasily  in 
the  midst  of  his  melancholy  reverie,  which  was 
half  trance,  half  exhaustion.  He  moved  a  step 
away,  as  if  to  shake  off  the  interruption,  scarcely 
conscious  what,  and  not  at  all  who  it  was. 

"My  dear  young  man,  you  must  come  home 
with  me,"  she  said  again. 

He  looked  at  her,  with  consciousness  re-awak- 
ening, and  attempted  to  smile,  with  his  natural 
ready  response  to  every  kindness.  "  It  is  you," 
he  said,  and  then,  *'  I  might  have  known  it  could 
only  be  you." 

What  did  that  mean  ?  Nothing  at  all.  Merely 
his  sense  that  the  one  person  who  had  spoken 
kindly  to  him,  looked  tenderly  at  him  (though  he 
had  never  known  why,  and  had  been  both  amused 
and  embarrassed  by  the  consciousness),  was  the 
most  likely  among  all  the  strangers  by  whom  he 
was  surrounded  to  be  kind  to  him  now.  But  it 
produced  an  effect  upon  Miss  Bethune  which  was 
far  beyond  any  meaning  it  bore. 

A  great  light  seemed  suddenly  to  blaze  over 
her  face  ;  her  eyes,  which  had  been  so  veiled  and 
stern,  awoke;  every  line  of  a  face  which  could  be 


244  -^  House  in  Blooms  bury. 

harsh  and  almost  rigid  in  repose,  began  to  melt 
and  soften ;  her  composure,  which  had  been 
almost  solemn,  failed ;  her  lip  began  to  quiver, 
tears  came  dropping  upon  his  arm,  which  she 
suddenly  clasped  with  both  her  hands,  clinging  to 
it.  "  You  say  right,"  she  cried,  "  my  dear,  my 
dear! — more  right  than  all  the  reasons.  It  is  you 
and  nature  that  makes  everything  clear.  You  are 
just  coming  home  with  me." 

"I  don't  seem,"  he  said,  "to  know  what  the 
word  means." 

"  But  you  will  soon  learn  again.  God  bless 
the  good  woman  that  cherished  you  and  loved 
you,  my  bonnie  boy.  I'll  not  say  a  word  against 
her — oh,  no,  no  !  God's  blessing  upon  her  as  she 
lies  there.  I  will  never  grudge  a  good  word  you 
say  of  her,  never  a  regret.  But  now  " — she  put 
her  arm  within  his  with  a  proud  and  tender 
movement,  which  so  far  penetrated  his  languor 
as  to  revive  the  bewilderment  which  he  had  felf 
before — "  now  you  are  coming  home  with  me." 

He  did  not  resist ;  he  allowed  himself  to  \r* 
led  to  the  little  carriage  and  packed  into  it,  which 
was  not  quite  an  easy  thing  to  do.  On  anothei 
occasion  he  would  have  laughed  and  protested , 
but  on  this  he  submitted  gravely  to  whatever  v/as 
required  of  him,  thankful,  in  the  failure  of  all 
motive,  to  have  some  one  to  tell  him  what  to  do, 
to  move  him  as  if  he  were  an  automaton.  He  sat 
bundled  up  on  the  little  front  seat,  with  Dora's 
wondering  countenance  opposite  to  him,  and  that 
other  inexplicable  face,  inspired  and  lighted  up 
with  tenderness.     He  had  not  strength  enough  to 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  245 

inquire  why  this  stranger  took  possession  of  him 
so;  neither  could  Dora  tell,  who  sat  opposite  to 
him,  her  mind  awakened,  her  thoughts  busy. 
This  was  the  almost  son  of  the  woman  who  they 
said  was  Dora's  mother.  What  was  he  to  Dora? 
Was  he  the  nearer  to  her.  or  the  farther  from  her, 
for  that  relationship  ?  Did  she  like  him  better  or 
worse  for  having  done  everything  that  it  ought, 
they  said,  have  been  her  part  to  do  ? 

These  questions  were  all  confused  in  Dora's 
mind,  but  they  were  not  favourable  to  this  new 
interloper  into  her  life — he  who  had  known  about 
her  for  years  while  she  had  never  heard  of  him. 
She  sat  very  upright,  reluctant  to  make  room  for 
him,  yet  scrupulously  doing  so,  and  a  little  indig- 
nant that  he  should  thus  be  brought  in  to  interfere 
with  her  own  claims  to  the  first  place.  The  drive 
to  Bloomsbury  seemed  very  long  in  these  circum- 
stances, and  it  was  indeed  a  long  drive.  They 
all  came  back  into  the  streets  after  the  long 
suburban  road  with  a  sense  almost  of  relief  in  the 
growing  noise,  the  rattle  of  the  causeway,  and 
sound  of  the  carts  and  carriages — which  made  it 
unnecessary,  as  it  had  been  impossible  for  them, 
to  say  anything  to  each  other,  and  brought  back 
the  affairs  of  common  life  to  dispel  the  influences 
of  the  solemn  moment  that  was  past 

When  they  had  reached  Miss  Bethune's  rooms, 
and  returned  altogether  to  existence,  and  the  sight 
of  a  table  spread  for  a  meal,  it  was  a  shock,  but 
not  an  ungrateful  one.  Miss  Bethune  at  once 
threw  off  the  gravity  which  had  wrapped  her  like 
a  cloak,  when  she  put  away  her  black  bonnet 


246  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

She  bade  Gilchrist  hurry  to  have  the  luncheon 
brought  up.  "These  two  young  creatures  have 
eaten  nothing,  I  am  sure,  this  day.  Probably 
they  think  they  cannot :  but  when  food  is  set 
before  them  they  will  learn  better.  Haste  ye, 
Gilchrist,  to  have  it  served  up.  No,  Dora,  you 
will  stay  with  me  too.  Your  father  is  a  troubled 
man  this  day.  You  will  not  go  in  upon  him  with 
that  cloud  about  you,  not  till  you  are  refreshed 
and  rested,  and  have  got  your  colour  and  your 
natural  look  back.  And  you,  my  bonnie  man ! " 
She  could  not  refrain  from  touchinof,  caressinor  his 
shoulder  as  she  passed  him  ;  her  eyes  kept  filling 
with  tears  as  she  looked  at  him.  He  for  his  part 
moved  and  took  his  place  as  she  told  him,  still  in 
a  dream. 

It  was  a  curious  meal,  more  daintily  prepared 
and  delicate  than  usual,  and  Miss  Bethune  was  a 
woman  who  at  all  times  was  "very  particular," 
and  exercised  all  the  gifts  of  the  landlady,  whose 
other  lodgers  demanded  much  less  of  her.  And 
the  mistress  of  the  little  feast  was  still  less  as 
usual.  She  scarcely  sat  down  at  her  own  table, 
but  served  her  young  guests  with  anxious  care, 
carving  choice  morsels  for  them,  watching  their 
faces,  their  little  movements  of  impatience,  and 
the  gradual  development  of  natural  appetite,  which 
came  as  the  previous  spell  gradually  wore  off 
She  talked  all  the  time,  her  countenance  a  little 
flushed  and  full  of  emotion,  her  eyes  moist  and 
shining,  with  frequent  sallies  at  Gilchrist,  who 
hovered  round  the  table  waiting  upon  the  young 
guests,  and  in  her  excitement  making  continual 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  247 

mistakes  and  stumblings,  which  soon  roused  Dora 
to  laugh,  and  Harry  to  apologise. 

*'  It  is  all  right,"  he  cried,  when  Miss  Bethune 
at  last  made  a  dart  at  her  attendant,  and  gave  her, 
what  is  called  in  feminine  language,  "  a  shake,"  to 
bring  her  to  herself. 

"Are  you  out  of  your  wits,  woman?"  Miss 
Bethune  exclaimed.  "Go  away  and  leave  me  to 
look  after  the  bairns,  if  ye  cannot  keep  your  head. 
Are  you  out  of  your  wits  }  " 

"  Indeed,  mem,  and  I  have  plenty  of  reason, 
Gilchrist  said,  weeping,  and  feeling  for  her  apron, 
y/hile  the  dish  in  her  hand  wavered  wildly  ;  and 
then  it  was  that  Harry  Gordon,  coming  to  him- 
self, cried  out  that  it  was  all  right. 

"  And  I  am  going  to  have  some  of  that,"  he 
added,  steadying  the  kind  creature,  whose  instinct 
of  service  had  more  effect  than  either  encourage- 
ment or  reproof.  And  this  little  touch  of  reality 
settled  him  too.  He  began  to  respond  a  little,  to 
rouse  himself,  even  to  see  the  humour  of  the 
situation,  at  which  Dora  had  begun  to  laugh,  but 
which  brought  a  soft  moisture,  in  which  was  ease 
and  consolation,  to  his  eyes. 

It  v.as  not  until  about  an  hour  later  that  Miss 
Bethune  was  left  alone  with  the  young  man.  He 
had  begun  by  this  time  to  speak  about  himself. 
**  I  am  not  so  discouraged  as  you  think,"  he  said, 
"  I  don't  seem  to  be  afraid.  After  all,  it  doesn't 
matter  much,  does  it,  what  happens  to  a  young 
fellow  all  alone  in  the  world?  It's  only  me,  any- 
how. I  have  no  wife/'  he  said,  with  a  faint  laugh, 
"no  sister  to  be  involved — nothing  but  my  own 


248  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

rather  useless  person,  a  thing  of  no  account.  It 
wasn't  that  that  knocked  me  down.  It  was  just 
the  feeling  of  the  end  of  everything,  and  that  she 
was  laid  there  that  had  been  so  good  to  me — so 
good — and  nothing  ever  to  be  done  for  her  any 
more." 

**  I  can  forgive  you  that,"  said  Miss  Bethune, 
with  a  sort  of  sob  in  her  throat  "  And  yet  she 
was  ill  to  you,  unjust  at  the  last." 

"  No,  not  that.  I  have  had  everything,  too 
much  for  a  man  capable  of  earning  his  living  to 
accept — but  then  it  seemed  all  so  natural,  it  was 
the  common  course  of  life.  I  v/as  scarcely  waking 
up  to  see  that  it  could  not  be." 

"  And  a  cruel  rousing  you  have  had  at  last, 
my  poor  boy," 

"  No,"  he  said  steadily,  "  I  will  never  allow  it 
was  cruel  ;  it  has  been  sharp  and  effectual.  It 
couldn't  help  being  effectual,  could  it?  since  I 
have  no  alternative.  The  pity  is  I  am  good  for 
so  little.     No  education  to  speak  of" 

"  You  shall  have  education — as  much  as  you 
can  set  your  face  to." 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  little  air  of  sur- 
prise, and  shook  his  head.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  not 
now.  I  am  too  old.  I  must  lose  no  more  time. 
The  thing  is,  that  my  work  will  be  worth  so  much 
less,  being  guided  by  no  skill.  Skill  is  a  beauti- 
ful thing.  I  envy  the  very  scavengers,"  he  said 
(who  were  working  underneath  the  window),  "for 
piling  up  their  mud  like  that,  straight.  I  should 
never  get  it  straight."  The  poor  young  fellow 
was  so  near  tears  that  he  was  glad  from  time  to 


A  House  in  Blooinsbury.  249 

time  to  have  a  chance  of  a  feeble  laugh,  which 
relieved  him.  **  And  that  is  humble  enough !  I 
think  much  the  best  thing  for  me  will  be  to  go 
back  to  South  America.  There  are  people  who 
know  me,  who  would  give  me  a  little  place  where 
I  could  learn.  Book-keeping  can't  be  such  a 
tremendous  mystery.  There's  an  old  clerk  or 
two  of  my  guardians  " — here  he  paused  to  swal- 
low down  the  climbing  sorrow — "  who  would 
give  me  a  hint  or  two.  And  if  the  pay  was  very 
small  at  first,  why,  I'm  not  an  extravagant 
fellow." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  "  his  confidante  said. 

He  looked  at  her  again,  surprised,  then 
glanced  at  himself  and  his  dress,  which  was  not 
economical,  and  reddened  and  laughed  again.  "  I 
am  afraid  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't 
known  much  what  economy  was.  I  have  lived 
like  the  other  people ;  but  I  am  not  too  old  to 
learn,  and  I  should  not  mind  in  the  least  what  I 
looked  like,  or  how  I  lived,  for  a  time.  Things 
would  get  better  after  a  time." 

They  were  standing  together  near  the  window, 
for  he  had  begun  to  roam  about  the  room  as  he 
talked,  and  she  had  risen  from  her  chair  w^ith  one 
of  the  sudden  movements  of  excitement.  "  There 
will  be  no  need,"  she  said, — "there  will  be  no 
need.     Something  will  be  found  for  you  at  home." 

He  shook  his  head.  "You  forget  it  is  scarcely 
home  to  me.  And  what  could  I  do  here  that 
would  be  v/orth  paying  me  for  }  I  must  no  more 
be  dependent  upon  kindness.  Oh,  don't  think 
I   do  not  feel  kindness.      What  should    i   have 


250  A  House  in  Bloomsbury, 

done  this  miserable  day  but  for  you,  who  have 
been  so  good  to  me — as  good  as — as  a  mother, 
though  I  had  no  claim  ?  " 

She  gave  a  great  cry,  and  seized  him_  by  both 
his  hands.  "  Oh,  lad,  if  you  knew  what  you  were 
saying !  That  word  to  me,  that  have  died  for  it, 
and  have  no  claim  !  Gilchrist,  Gilchrist !  "  she 
cried,  suddenly  dropping  his  hands  again,  "  come 
here  and  speak  to  me  !  Help  me  !  have  pity  upon 
me !  For  if  this  is  not  him,  all  nature  and  God's 
against  me.     Come  here  before  I  speak  or  die  ! " 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

It  was  young  Gordon  himself,  alarmed  but  not 
excited  as  by  any  idea  of  a  new  discovery  which 
could  affect  his  fate,  who  brought  Miss  Bethune 
back  to  herself,  far  better  than  Gilchrist  could  do, 
who  had  no  art  but  to  weep  and  entreat,  and  then 
yield  to  her  mistress  whatever  she  might  wish, 
A  quelqite  chose  vialheur  est  bon.  He  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  soothing  and  calming  down  an 
excitable,  sometimes  hysterical  woman,  whose 
acces  des  nerfs  meant  nothing,  or  were,  at  least, 
supposed  to  mean  nothing,  except  indeed  nerves, 
and  the  ups  and  downs  which  are  characteristic 
of  them.  He  was  roused  by  the  not  dissimilar 
outburst  of  feeling  or  passion,  wholly  incompre- 
hensible to  him  from  any  other  point  of  view,  to 
which  his  new  friend  had  given  way.  He  took  it 
very  quietly,  with  the  composure  of  use  and  wont. 
The  sight  of  her  emotion  and  excitement  brought 
him  quite  back  to  himself.  He  could  imagine  no 
reason  whatever  for  it,  except  the  sympathetic 
effect  of  all  the  troublous  circumstances  in  which 
she  had  been,  without  any  real  reason,  involved. 
It  was  her  sympathy,  her  kindness  for  himself 
and  for  Dora,  he  had  not  the  least  doubt,  which, 
by  bringing  her  into  those  scenes  of  pain  and 
trouble,  and  associating  her  so  completely  with 
the  complicated  and  intricate  story,  had  brought 

(250 


252  A  House  in  Bloonisbury. 

on  this  *'  attack."  What  he  had  known  to  be 
characteristic  of  the  one  woman  with  whom  he 
had  been  in  famihar  intercourse  for  so  lono-  a 
period  of  his  hfe  seemed  to  Harry  characteristic 
of  all  women.  He  was  quite  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion. Dr.  Roland  himself,  who  would  have  been 
so  full  of  professional  curiosity,  so  anxious  to 
make  out  what  It  was  all  about,  as  perhaps  to 
lessen  his  promptitude  in  action,  would  scarcely 
have  been  of  so  much  real  use  as  Harry,  who  had 
no  arriere  pensec,  but  addressed  himself  to  the 
immediate  emergency  with  all  his  might.  He 
soothed  the  sufferer,  so  that  she  was  soon  relieved 
by  copious  floods  of  tears,  which  seemed  to  him 
the  natural  method  of  getting  rid  of  all  that 
emotion  and  excitement,  but  which  surprised 
Gilchrist  beyond  description,  and  even  Miss 
Bethune  herself,  whose  complete  breakdown  was 
so  unusual  and  unlike  her.  He  left  her  quite  at 
ease  in  his  mind  as  to  her  condition,  having  per- 
suaded her  to  lie  down,  and  recommended  Gil- 
christ to  darken  the  room,  and  keep  her  mistress 
in  perfect  quiet. 

"  I  will  go  and  look  after  my  things,"  he  said, 
'•'  and  I'll  come  back  when  I  have  made  all  my 
arrangements,  and  tell  you  everything.  Oh,  don't 
speak  now  !  You  will  be  all  right  in  the  evening 
if  you  keep  quite  quiet  now  :  and  if  you  will  give 
me  your  advice  then,  it  will  be  very,  very  grateful 
to  me."  He  made  a  little  warning  gesture,  keep- 
ing her  from  replying,  and  then  kissed  her  hand 
and  went  away.  He  had  himself  pulled  down  the 
blind  to  subdue  a  litde  of  the  garish  July  daylight, 


A  I  louse  in  Bloonsbury.  253 

and  placed  her  on  a  sofa  In  the  corner  —  ministra- 
tions which  both  mistress  and  maid  permitted  with 
bewilderment,  so  strange  to  them  was  at  once  the 
care  and  the  authority  of  such  proceedings.  They 
remained,  Miss  Bethune  on  the  sofa,  Gilchrist, 
open-mouthed,  staring  at  her,  until  the  door  was 
heard  to  close  upon  the  young  man.  Then  Miss 
Bethune  rose  slowl}',  with  a  kind  of  awe  in  her 
face. 

"  As  soon  as  you  think  he  is  out  of  sight,"  she 
said,  "  Gilchrist,  we'll  have  up  the  blinds  again, 
but  not  veesibly,  to  go  against  the  boy." 

"  Eh,  mem,"  cried  Gilchrist,  between  laughing 
and  crying,  "  to  bid  me  darken  the  room,  and  you 
that  canna  abide  the  dark,  night  or  day !  " 

"It  was  a  sweet  thought,  Gilchrist  —  all  the 
pure  goodness  of  him  and  the  kind  heart." 

"  I  am  not  saying,  mem,  but  what  the  young 
gentleman  has  a  very  kind  heart." 

"You  are  not  saying?  And  what  can  you 
know  beyond  what's  veesible  to  ever)^  person  that 
sees  him  ?  It  is  more  than  that.  Gilchrist,  you 
and  all  the  rest,  what  do  I  care  what  you  say?  If 
that  is  not  the  voice  of  nature,  v/hat  is  there  to 
trust  to  in  this  whole  world  ?  Why  should  that 
young  lad,  bred  up  so  different,  knowing  nothing 
of  me  or  my  ways,  have  taken  to  me  ?  Look  at 
Dora.  What  a  difference  !  She  has  no  instinct, 
nothing  drawing  her  to  her  poor  mother.  That 
was  a  most  misfortunate  woman,  but  not  an  ill 
woman,  Gilchrist.  Look  how  she  has  done  by 
mine  !  But  Dora  has  no  leaning  towards  her,  no 
tender  thought ;  whereas  he,  my  bonnie  boy " 


254  ■^  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

"  Mem,"  said  Gilchrist,  "  but  if  it  was  the 
voice  of  nature,  it  would  be  double  strong  in  Miss 
Dora  ;  for  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  was  her  mother : 
and  with  this  one  —  oh,  my  dear  leddy,  you  ken 
yoursei  

Miss  Bethune  gave  her  faithful  servant  a  look 
of  flame,  and  going  to  the  windows,  drew  up 
energetically  the  blinds,  making  the  springs  re- 
sound. Then  she  said  in  her  most  satirical  tone : 
"  And  what  is  it  I  ken  mysel'  ? " 

"  Oh,  mem,"  said  Gilchrist,  "  there's  a'  the  evi- 
dence, first  his  ain  story,  and  then  the  leddy's  that 
convinced  ye  for  a  moment ;  and  then,  what  is 
most  o'  a,  the  old  gentleman,  the  writer,  one  of 
them  that  kens  everything  :  of  the  father  that  died 
so  many  long  years  ago,  and  the  baby  before 
him." 

Miss  Bethune  put  up  her  hands  to  her  ears, 
she  stamped  her  foot  upon  the  ground.  "  How 
dare  ye  —  how  dare  ye?"  she  cried.  "Either 
man  or  woman  that  repeats  that  fool  story  to  me 
is  no  friend  of  mine.  My  child,  that  I've  felt  in 
my  heart  growing  up,  and  seen  him  boy  and  man ! 
What's  that  old  man's  word  —  a  stranger  that 
knows  nothing,  that  had  even  forgotten  what  he 
was  put  up  to  say  —  in  comparison  with  what  is  in 
my  heart?  Is  there  such  a  thing  as  nature,  or 
no'?  Is  a  mother  just  like  any  other  person,  no 
better,  rather  worse  ?  Oh,  woman  !  —  you  that  are 
a  woman !  with  no  call  to  be  rigid  about  your  evi- 
dence like  a  man  —  what's  your  evidence  to  me? 
I  will  just  tell  him  when  he  comes  back.  '  My 
bonnie  man,'  I  will  say,  '  you  have  been  driven 


A  House  171  Bloomsbury.  255 

here  and  there  in  this  world,  and  them  that  Hked 
you  best  have  failed  you  ;  but  here  is  the  place 
where  you  belong,  and  here  is  a  love  that  will 
never  fail ! '  " 

*'  Oh,  my  dear  leddy,  my  own  mistress,"  cried 
Gilchrist,  "  think  —  think  before  you  do  that !  He 
will  ask  ye  for  the  evidence,  if  I  am  not  to  ask 
for  it.  He's  a  fine,  independent-spirited  young 
gentleman,  and  he  will  just  shake  his  head,  and 
say  he'll  lippen  to  nobody  again.  Oh,  dinna 
deceive  the  young  man !  Ye  might  find  out 
after " 

"What,  Gilchrist?  Do  you  think  I  would 
change  my  mind  about  my  own  son,  and  abandon 
him,  like  this  woman,  at  the  last?" 

"  I  never  knew  you  forsake  one  that  trusted 
in  ye,  I'm  not  saying  that ;  but  there  might  come 
one  after  all  that  had  a  better  claim.  There 
might  appear  one  that  even  the  like  of  me  would 
believe  in  —  that  would  have  real  evidence  in  his 
favour,  that  was  no  more  to  be  doubted  than  if 
he  had  never  been  taken  away  out  of  your  arms." 

Miss  Bethune  turned  round  quick  as  lightning 
upon  her  maid,  her  eyes  shining,  her  face  full  of 
sudden  colour  and  light.  "  God  bless  you,  Gil- 
christ ! "  she  cried,  seizing  the  maid  by  her " 
shoulders  with  a  half  embrace ;  "I  see  now 
you  have  never  believed  in  that  story —  no  more 
than  me." 

Poor  Gilchrist  could  but  gape  with  her  mouth 
open  at  this  unlooked-for  turning  of  the  tables. 
She  had  presented,  without  knowing  it,  the 
strongest  argument  of  all. 


256  A  House  i)i  Bioomsbnry. 

After  this,  the  patient,  whom  poor  Harry  had 
left  to  the  happy  influences  of  quiet  and  darkness, 
■with  all  the  blinds  drawn  up  and  the  afternoon 
sunshine  pouring  in,  went  through  an  hour  or  two 
of  restless  occupation,  her  mind  in  the  highest 
activity,  her  thoughts  and  her  hands  full.  She 
promised  finally  to  Gilchrist,  not  without  a  mental 
reservation  in  the  case  of  special  impulse  or  new 
light,  not  to  disclose  her  conviction  to  Harry,  but 
to  wait  for  at  least  a  day  or  two  on  events.  But 
even  this  resolution  did  not  suffice  to  reduce  her 
to  any  condition  of  quiet,  or  make  the  rest  which 
he  had  prescribed  possible.  She  turned  to  a 
number  of  thing's  which  had  been  laid  aside  to  be 
done  one  time  or  another ;  arrangement  of  new 
possessions  and  putting  away  oi  old,  for  which 
previously  she  had  never  found  a  fit  occasion,  and 
despatched  them,  scarcely  allowing  Gilchrist  to 
help  her,  at  lightning  speed. 

Finally,  she  took  out  an  old  and  heavy  jewel- 
box,  which  had  stood  untouched  in  her  bedroom 
for  years ;  for,  save  an  old  brooch  or  two  and 
some  habitual  rings  which  never  left  her  fingers, 
Miss  Bethune  wore  no  ornaments.  She  took 
them  into  her  sitting-room  as  the  time  approached 
when  Harry  might  be  expected  back.  It  would 
give  her  a  countenance,  she  thought ;  it  would 
keep  her  from  fixing  her  eyes  on  him  while  he 
spoke,  and  thus  being  assailed  through  all  the 
armour  of  the  heart  at  the  same  time.  She  could 
not  look  him  in  the  face  and  see  that  likeness 
which  Gilclu'ist,  unconvincible,  woukl  not  see, 
and  )et    remain    silent.     Turning   over    the  old- 


A   House  in  Blooinsbury.  257 

fashioned  jewels,  telling  him  about  them,  to  whom 
they  had  belonged,  and  all  the  traditions  regard- 
ing them,  would  help  her  in  that  severe  task  of 
self-repression.  She  put  the  box  on  the  table 
before  her,  and  pulled  out  the  trays. 

Nobody  in  Bloomsbury  had  seen  these  trea- 
sures before  :  the  box  had  been  kept  carefully 
locked,  disguised  in  an  old  brown  cover,  that  no 
one  mio-ht  even  gruess  how  valuable  it  was.  Miss 
Bethune  was  almost  tempted  to  send  for  Dora  to 
see  the  diamonds  in  their  old-fashioned  settings, 
and  that  pearl  necklace  which  was  still  finer  in  its 
perfection  of  lustre  and  shape.  To  call  Dora 
when  there  was  anything  to  show  was  so  natural, 
and  it  might  make  it  easier  for  her  to  keep  her 
own  counsel  ;  but  she  reflected  that  in  Dora's 
presence  the  young  man  would  not  be  more  than 
half  hers,  and  forbore. 

Never  in  her  life  had  those  jew^els  given  her 
so  much  pleasure.  They  had  given  her  no 
pleasure,  indeed.  She  had  not  been  allowed  to 
have  them  in  that  far-off  stormy  youth,  which  had 
been  lightened  by  such  a  sweet,  guilty  gleam  of 
happiness,  and  quenched  in  such  misery  of  down- 
fall. When  they  came  to  her  by  inheritance,  like 
all  the  rest,  these  beautiful  things  had  made  her 
heart  sick.  What  could  she  do  with  them  —  a 
woman  whose  life  no  longer  contained  any  possible 
festival,  w^ho  had  nobody  coming  after  her,  no  heir 
to  make  heirlooms  sweet  ?  She  had  locked  the 
box,  and  almost  thrown  away  the  key,  which, 
however,  was  a  passionate  suggestion  repugnant 
to  common  sense,   and  resolved  itself   naturally 


258  A  House  in  Bloo^nsbitry. 

into  confiding  the  key  to  Gilchrist,  in  whose  most 
secret  repositories  it  had  been  kept,  with  an 
occasional  furtive  interval  during  which  the  maid 
had  secretly  visited  and  "  polished  up  "  the  jewels, 
making  sure  that  they  were  all  right.  Neither . 
mistress  nor  maid  was  quite  aware  of  their  value, ' 
and  both  probably  exaggerated  it  in  their  thoughts  ; 
but  some  of  the  diamonds  were  fine,  though  all 
were  very  old-fashioned  in  arrangement,  and  the 
pearls  were  noted.  Miss  Bethune  pulled  out  the 
trays,  and  the  gems  flashed  and  sparkled  in  a 
thousand  colours  in  the  slant  of  sunshine  which 
poured  in- its  last  level  ray  through  one  window, 
just  before  the  sun  set  —  and  made  a  dazzling 
show  upon  the  table,  almost  blinding  Janie,  who 
came  up  with  a  message,  and  could  not  restrain 
a  little  shriek  of  wonder  and  admiration.  The 
letter  was  one  of  trouble  and  appeal  from  poor 
Mrs.  Hesketh,  who  and  her  husband  were  becom- 
ing more  and  more  a  burden  on  the  shoulders  of 
their  friends.  It  asked  for  money,  as  usual,  just 
a  litde  money  to  go  on  with,  as  the  shop  in  which 
they  had  been  set  up  was  not  as  yet  producing 
much.  The  letter  had  been  written  with  evident 
reluctance,  and  was  marked  with  blots  of  tears. 
Miss  Bethune's  mind  was  too  much  excited  to 
consider  calmly  any  such  petition.  Full^  herself 
of  anticipation,  of  passionate  hope,  and  visionary 
enthusiasm,  which  transported  her  above  all  com- 
mon things,  how  was  she  to  refuse  a  poor  woman's 
appeal  for  the  bare  necessities  of  existence  —  a 
woman  "  near  her  trouble,"  with  a  useless  husband, 
who  was  unworthy,  yet  whom  the  poor  soul  loved  ? 


A  House  in  Blooinsbury.  259 

She  called  Gilchrist,  who  generally  carried  the 
purse,  to  get  something  for  the  poor  little  pair. 

"  Is  there  anybody  waiting?"  she  asked. 

"Oh  ay,  mem,"  said  Gilchrist,  "there's  some- 
body waiting,  — just  him  himsel',  the  weirdless 
creature,  that  is  good  for  nothing."  Gilchrist  did 
not  approve  of  all  her  mistress's  liberalities.  "  I 
would  not  just  be  their  milch  cow  to  give  them 
whatever  they're  wanting."  she  said.  "  It's  awful 
bad  for  any  person  to  just  know  where  to  run 
when  they  are  in  trouble." 

"  Hold  your  peace ! "  cried  her  mistress. 
*'  Am  I  one  to  shut  up  my  heart  when  the  bless- 
ingf  of  God  has  come  to  me  ? " 

"  Oh,  mem ! "  cried  Gilchrist,  remonstrating, 
holding  up  her  hands. 

But  Miss  Bethune  stamped  her  foot,  and  the 
wiser  woman  yielded. 

She  found  Hesketh  standlngf  at  the  door  of 
the  sitting-room,  when  she  went  out  to  give  him, 
very  unwillingly,  the  money  for  his  wife.  "  The 
impident  weirdless  creature !  He  would  have 
been  in  upon  my  leddy  In  another  moment,  press- 
ing to  her  very  presence  with  his  impident 
ways  !  "  cried  Gilchrist,  hot  and  indignant.  The 
faithful  woman  paused  at  the  door  as  she  came 
back,  and  looked  at  her  mistress  turnlnof  over  and 
rearranging  these  treasures.  "  And  her  sitting 
playing  with  her  bonnie  dies,  in  a  rapture  like  a 
little  bairn  !  "  she  said  to  herself,  putting  up  her 
apron  to  her  eyes.  And  then  Gilchrist  shook  her 
head  —  shook  it,  growing  quicker  and  quicker  in 
the  movement,  as  if  she  would  have  twisted  It  off. 


26o  A  House  in  Bloonisbury. 

But  Miss  Bethune  was  "  very  composed  "  when 
young  Gordon  came  back.  With  an  intense  sense 
of  the  humour  of  the  position,  which  mistress  and 
maid  communicated  to  each  other  with  one  glance 
of  tacit  co-operation,  these  two  women  comported 
themselves  as  if  the  behests  of  the  young  visitor 
who  had  taken  the  management  of  Miss  Bethune's 
acces  des  nerfs  upon  himself,  had  been  carried 
out.  She  assumed,  almost  unconsciously,  not- 
withstanding the  twinkle  in  her  eye,  the  languid 
aspect  of  a  woman  who  has  been  resting  after 
unusual  excitement.  All  women,  they  say  (as 
they  say  so  many  foolish  things) ,  are  actors ;  all 
women,  at  all  events,  let  us  allow,  learn  as  the 
A  B  C  of  their  training  the  art  of  taking  up  a  role 
assigned  to  them,  and  fulfilling  the  necessities  of  a 
position.  "  You  will  see  what  I'm  reduced  to  by 
what  I'm  doing,"  she  said.  "As  if  there  was 
nothing  of  more  importance  in  life,  I  am  just 
playing  myself  with  my  toys,  like  Dora,  or  any 
other  little  thing." 

"  So  much  the  best  thing  you  could  do,"  said 
young  Harry  ;  and  he  was  eager  and  delighted 
to  look  through  the  contents  of  the  box  with  her. 

He  was  far  better  acquainted  with  their  value 
than  she  was,  and  while  she  told  him  the  family 
associations  connected  with  each  ornament,  he 
discussed  very  learnedly  what  they  were,  and  dis- 
tinguished the  old-fashioned  rose  diamonds  which 
were  amongst  those  of  greater  value,  with  a  know- 
ledge that  seemed  to  her  extraordinary.  They 
.spent,  in  fact,  an  hour  easily  and  happily  over  that 
box,  quite  relieved  from  graver  considerations  by 


A  House  in  Bioomsbury.  261 

the  interposition  of  a  new  thing-,  in  which  there  were 
no  deep  secrets  of  the  heart  or  commotions  of  being 
involved :  and  thus  were  brought  down  into  the 
ordinary  from  the  high  and  troublous  level  of  feel- 
ing and  excitement  on  which  they  had  been.  To 
Miss  Bethune  the  little  episode  was  one  of  child's 
play  in  the  midst  of  the  most  serious  questions  of 
the  world.  Had  she  thought  it  possible  beforehand 
that  such  an  interval  could  have  been,  she  would, 
in  all  likelihood,  have  scorned  herself  for  the  dere- 
liction, and  almost  scorned  the  young  man  for  being 
able  to  forget  at  once  his  sorrow  and  the  gravity 
of  his  circumstances  at  sight  of  anything  so  trifling 
as  a  collection  of  trinkets.  But  in  reality  this 
interlude  was  balm  to  them  both.  It  revealed  to 
Miss  Bethune  a  possibility  of  ordinary  life  and 
intercourse,  made  sweet  by  understanding  and 
affection,  which  was  a  revelation  to  her  repressed 
and  passionate  spirit ;  and  it  soothed  the  youth 
with  that  renewing  of  fresh  interests,  reviving  and 
succeeding  the  old,  which  gives  elasticity  to  the 
mind,  and  courage  to  face  the  world  anew.  They 
did  not  know  how  long  they  had  been  occupied 
over  the  jewels,  when  the  hour  of  dinner  came 
round  again,  and  Gilchrist  appeared  with  her  pre- 
parations, still  further  increasing  that  sense  of 
peaceful  life  renewed,  and  the  order  of  common 
things  begun  again.  It  was  only  after  this  meal 
was  over,  the  jewels  being  all  restored  to  their 
places,  and  the  box  to  its  old  brown  cover  in  Miss 
Bethune's  bedroom,  that  the  discussion  of  the 
graver  question  was  resumed. 

"  There   is  one    thing-,"    Miss    Bethune    said, 


262  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

*'  that,  however  proud  you  may  be,  you  must  let 
me  say :  and  that  is,  that  everything  having 
turned  out  so  different  to  your  thoughts,  and  you 
left — you  will  not  be  offended  ? — astray,  as  it  were, 
in  this  big  unfriendly  place " 

"  I  cannot  call  it  unfriendly,"  said  young 
Gordon.  "  If  other  people  find  it  so,  it  is  not  my 
experience.  I  have  found  you."  He  looked  up 
at  her  with  a  half  laugh,  with  moisture  in  his 
eyes. 

"Ay,"  she  said,  with  emphasis,  "you  have 
found  me  —  you  say  well  —  found  me  when  you 
were  not  looking  for  me.  I  accept  the  word  as  a 
good  omen.     And  after  that  ? " 

If  only  she  would  not  have  abashed  him  from 
time  to  time  with  those  dark  sayings,  which 
seemed  to  mean  something  to  which  he  had  no 
clue !  He  felt  himself  brought  suddenly  to  a 
standstill  in  his  grateful  effusion  of  feeling,  and 
put  up  his  hand  to  arrest  her  in  what  she  was 
evidently  going  on  to  say. 

"  Apart  from  that,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  I  am 
not  penniless.  I  have  not  been  altogether 
dependent ;  at  least,  the  form  of  my  dependence 
has  been  the  easiest  one.  I  have  had  my 
allowance  from  my  guardian  ever  since  I  came  to 
man's  estate.  It  was  my  own,  though,  of  course, 
of  his  giving.  And  I  am  not  an  extravagant 
fellow.  It  was  not  as  if  I  wanted  money  for  to- 
morrow's living,  for  daily  bread."  He  coloured 
as  he  spoke,  with  the  half  pride,  half  shame,  of 
discussing  such  a  subject.  "  I  think,"  he  said, 
throwing  off  that  flush  with  a  shake  of  his  head, 


A  House  in  Bloojusbury.  263 

"  tliat  I  have  enough  to  take  me  back  to  South 
America,  and  there,  I  told  you,  I  have  friends.  I 
don't  think  I  can  fail  to  find  work  there." 

"  But  under  such  different  circumstances ! 
Have  you  considered  ?  A  poor  clerk  where  you 
were  one  of  the  fine  gentlemen  of  the  place.  Such 
a  change  of  position  is  easier  where  you  are  not 
known." 

He  grew  red  again,  with  a  more  painful 
colour.  "  I  don't  think  so,"  he  said  quickly.  "  I 
don't  believe  that  my  old  friends  would  cast  me 
off  because,  instead  of  being  a  useless  fellow  about 
town,  I  was  a  poor  clerk." 

"  Maybe  you  are  right,"  said  Miss  Bethune 
very  gravely.  "  I  am  not  one  that  thinks  so  ill 
of  human  nature.  They  would  not  cast  you  off. 
But  )'ou,  working  hard  all  day,  wearied  at  night, 
with  no  house  to  entertain  them  in  that  enter- 
tained )^ou,  would  it  not  be  you  that  would  cast 
off  them  ? " 

He  looked  at  her,  startled,  for  a  moment. 
"  Do  you  think,"  he  cried,  "  that  poverty  makes 
ja  man  mean  like  that?"  And  then  he  added 
'slowly:  "  It  is  possible,  perhaps,  that  it  might  be 
so."  Then  he  brightened  up  again,  and  looked 
her  full  in  the  face.  "  But  then  there  would  be 
nobody  to  blame  for  that,  it  would  be  simply  my 
own  fault." 

"  God  bless  you,  laddie  !  "  cried  Miss  Bethune 
quite  irrelevantly;  and  then  she  too  paused.  "  If 
it  should  happen  so  that  there  was  a  place  pro- 
vided for  you  at  home.  No,  no,  not  what  you 
call  dependence  —  far  from  it,  hard  work.     I  know 


264  ^  House  in  Bloonisbury. 

one  —  a  lady  that  has  property  in  the  North  — 
property  that  has  not  been  well  managed  —  that 
has  given  her  more  trouble  than  it  is  worth.  But 
there's  much  to  be  made  of  it,  if  she  had  a  man 
who  would  give  his  mind  to  it  as  if — as  if  it  were 
his  own." 

"But  I,"  he  said,  "know  nothing  about  the 
North.  I  would  not  know  how  to  manage.  I 
told  you  I  had  no  education.  And  would  this 
lady  have  me,  trust  me,  put  that  in  my  hands, 
without  knowing,  without " 

"  She  would  trust  you,"  said  Miss  Bethune, 
clasping  her  hands  together  firmly,  and  looking 
him  in  the  face,  in  a  rigid  position  which  showed 
how  little  steady  she  was  —  "  she  would  trust  you, 
for  life  and  death,  on  my  word." 

His  eyes  fell  before  that  unfathomable  concen- 
tration of  hers.  "  And  you  would  trust  me  like 
that  —  knowing  so  little,  so  little?  And  how  can 
you  tell  even  that  I  am  honest  —  even  that  I  am 
true  ?  That  there's  nothing  behind,  no  weakness, 
no  failure  ? " 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  she  said  harshly.  "  I 
know." 


CHAPTER  XXII.  » 

The  evening  passed,  however,  without  any  further 
revelations.  Miss  Bethune  explained  to  the  young 
man,  with  all  the  lucidity  of  a  man  of  business, 
the  situation  and  requirements  of  that  "  property 
in  the  North,"  which  would  give  returns,  she  be- 
lieved, of  various  kinds,  not  always  calculated  in 
balance  sheets,  if  it  was  looked  after  by  a  man 
who  would  deal  with  it  "as  if  it  were  his  own." 
The  return  would  be  something  in  money  and 
rents,  but  much  more  in  human  comfort  and  hap- 
piness. She  had  never  had  the  courage  to  tackle 
that  problem,  she  said,  and  the  place  had  been 
terrible  to  her,  full  of  associations  which  would 
be  thought  of  no  more  if  he  were  there.  'I'he 
result  was,  that  young  Gordon  went  away  thought- 
ful, somewhat  touched  by  the  feeling  with  which 
Miss  Bethune  had  spoken  of  her  poor  crofters, 
somewhat  roused  by  the  thought  of  "  the  North," 
that  vague  and  unknown  country  which  was  the 
country  of  his  fathers,  the  land  of  brown  heath  and 
shaggy  wood,  the  country  of  Scott,  which  is,  after 
all,  distinction  enough  for  any  well-conditioned 
stranger.  vShould  he  try  that  strange  new  open- 
ing of  life  suddenly  put  before  him  ?  The  un- 
known of  itself  has  a  charm  — 

If  the  pass  were  dangerous  known, 
The  danger's  self  were  lure  alone. 

(265) 


266  A  Ho2ise  in  Bloornsbury. 

He  went  back  to  his  hotel  with  at  least  a  new 
project  fully  occupying  all  his  thoughts. 

On  the  next  evening,  in  the  dusk  of  the 
summer  nioht,  Miss  Bethune  was  in  her  bed- 
chamber  alone.  She  had  no  light,  though  she 
was  a  lover  of  the  light,  and  had  drawn  up  the 
blinds  as  soon  as  the  young  physician  who  pre- 
scribed a  darkened  room  had  disappeared.  She 
had  a  habit  of  watching  out  the  last  departing 
rays  of  daylight,  and  loved  to  sit  in  the  gloaming, 
as  she  called  it,  reposing  from  all  the  cares  of  the 
day  in  that  meditative  moment.  It  was  a  bad 
siofn  of  Miss  Bethune's  state  of  mind  when  she 
called  early  for  her  lamp.  She  v.-as  seated  thus 
in  the  dark,  when  young  Gordon  came  in  audibly 
to  the  sitting-room,  introduced  by  Gilchrist,  who 
told  him  her  mistress  would  be  with  him  directly ; 
but,  knowing  Miss  Bethune  would  hear  what  she 
said,  did  not  come  to  call  her.  The  lamps  were 
lighted  in  that  room,  and  showed  a  little  outline 
of  light  through  the  chinks  of  the  door.  She 
smiled  to  herself  in  the  dark,  with  a  beatitude 
that  ought  to  have  lighted  it  up,  as  she  listened 
to  the  big  movements  of  the  young  man  in  the 
liofhted  room  next  door.  He  had  seated  himself 
under  Gilchrist's  ministrations  ;  but  when  she 
went  away  he  got  up  and  moved  about,  looking, 
as  Miss  Bethune  divined,  at  the  pictures  on  the 
walls  and  the  books  and  little  silver  toys  on  the 
tables. 

He  made  more  noise,  she  thought  to  herself 
proudly,  than  a  woman  does :  filled  the  space 
more,  seemed  to  occupy  and  fill  out  everything. 


A  House  in  Bloomsb7iry.  267 

Her  countenance  and  her  heart  expanded  in  the 
dark  ;  she  would  have  hked  to  peep  at  him  through 
the  crevice  of  Hght  round  the  door,  or  even  the 
keyhole,  to  see  him  when  he  did  not  know  she 
was  looking,  to  read  the  secrets  of  his  heart  in  his 
face.  There  were  none  there,  she  said  to  herself 
with  an  effusion  of  happiness  which  brought  the 
tears  to  her  eyes,  none  there  which  a  mother  should 
be  afraid  to  discover.  The  luxury  of  sitting  there, 
holding  her  breath,  hearing  him  move,  knowing 
him  so  near,  was  so  sweet  and  so  great,  that  she 
sat,  too  blessed  to  move,  taking  all  the  good  out  of 
that  happy  moment  before  it  should  fleet  away. 

Suddenly,  however,  there  came  a  dead  silence. 
Had  he  sat  down  again  ?  Had  he  gone  out  on 
the  balcony  ?  What  had  become  of  him  ?  She 
sat  breathless,  wondering,  listening  for  the  next 
sound.  Surely  he  had  stepped  outside  the  window 
to  look  out  upon  the  Bloomsbury  street,  and  the 
waving  of  the  trees  in  the  Square,  and  the  stars 
shining  overhead.  Not  a  sound  —  yet,  yes,  there 
was  something.  What  was  it  ?  A  faint,  stealthy 
rustling,  not  to  be  called  a  sound  at  all,  rather 
some  stealthy  movement  to  annihilate  sound  — 
the  strangest  contrast  to  the  light  firm  step  that 
had  come  into  the  room,  and  the  free  movements 
which  she  had  felt  to  be  bigger  than  a  woman's. 

Miss  Bethune  in  the  dark  held  her  breath  ; 
fear  seized  possession  of  her,  she  knew  not  why  ; 
her  heart  sank,  she  knew  not  why.  Oh,  his  father 
—  his  father  was  not  a  good  man  ! 

The  rustling  continued,  very  faint  ;  it  might 
have  been  a  small    animal   rubbing    against    the 


268  A  HoiLsc  in  Bloom sbiiry. 

door.  She  sat  bolt  upright  in  her  chair,  motion- 
less, silent  as  a  waxen  image,  listening.  If 
perhaps,  after  all,  it  should  be  only  one  of  the  little 
ofirls,  or  even  the  cat  rubbinor  ag^ainst  the  wall 
idly  on  the  way  downstairs  !  A  troubled  smile 
came  over  her  face,  her  heart  gave  a  throb  of 
relief.  But  then  the  sound  changed,  and  Miss 
Bethune's  face  ao-ain  orrew  rig-Id,  her  heart  stood 
still. 

Some  one  was  tr^'ing  very  cautiously,  without 
noise,  to  open  the  door ;  to  turn  the  handle  with- 
out making  any  sound  required  some  time ;  it 
creaked  a  little,  and  then  there  was  silence  —  guilty 
silence,  the  pause  of  stealth  alarmed  by  the  faintest 
noise  ;  then  it  began  again.  Slowly,  slowly  the 
handle  turned  round,  the  door  opened,  a  hair's 
breadth  at  a  time.  O  Lord  above  !  his  father  — 
his  father  was  an  ill  man. 

There  was  some  one  with  her  in  the  room  — 
some  one  unseen,  as  she  was,  swallowed  up  in 
the  darkness,  veiled  by  the  curtains  at  the 
windows,  which  showed  faintly  a  pale  streak  of 
sky  only,  letting  in  no  light.  Unseen,  but  not 
inaudible  ;  a  hurried,  fluttering  breath  betraying 
him,  and  that  faint  sound  of  cautious,  uneasy 
movement,  now  and  then  instantly,  guiltily 
silenced,  and  then  resumed.  She  could  feel  the 
stealthy  step  thrill  the  flooring,  making  a  jar, 
which  was  followed  by  one  of  those  complete 
silences  in  which  the  intruder  too  held  his  breath, 
then  another  stealthy  step. 

A  thousand  thoughts,  a  very  avalanche,  pre- 
cipitated themselves  through  her  mind.     A  man 


A  House  in  Bloomsbiiry.  269 

did  not  steal  into  a  dark  room  like  that  if  he  were 
doine  it  for  the  first  time.  And  his  words  last 
night,  "  How  do  you  know  even  that  I  am  honest?  " 
And  then  his  father  —  his  father  —  oh,  God  help 
him,  God  forgive  him  !  —  that  was  an  ill  man ! 
And  his  upbringing  in  a  country  where  lies  were 
common,  with  a  guardian  that  did  him  no  justice, 
and  the  woman  that  cut  him  off.  And  not  to 
know  that  he  had  a  creature  belonofingf  to  him  in 
the  world  to  be  made  glad  or  sorry  whatever 
happened  !  Oh,  God  forgive  him,  God  help  him ! 
the  unfortunate,  the  miserable  boy!  "Mine  all 
the  same — mine  all  the  same !"  her  heart  said, 
bleeding  —  oh,  that  was  no  metaphor!  bleeding 
with  the  anguish,  the  awful,  immeasurable  blow. 

If  there  was  any  light  at  all  in  the  room,  it 
was  a  faint  greyness,  just  showing  in  the  midst  of 
the  dark  the  vague  form  of  a  little  table  against 
the  wall,  and  a  box  in  a  brown  cover  —  a  box  —  no, 
no,  the  shape  of  a  box,  but  only  something  stand- 
ing there,  something,  the  accursed  thing  for  which 
life  and  love  were  to  be  wrecked  once  more.  Oh, 
his  father  —  his  father  !  But  his  father  would  not 
have  done  that.  Yet  it  was  honester  to  take  the 
trinkets,  the  miserable  stones  that  would  bring  in 
money,  than  to  wring  a  woman's  heart.  And 
what  did  the  boy  know  ?  He  had  never  been 
taught,  never  had  any  example,  God  help  him. 
God  forgive  him  !    and  mine  —  mine  all  the  time  ! 

Then  out  of  the  complete  darkness  came  into 
that  faint  grey  where  the  box  was,  an  arm,  a  hand. 
It  touched,  not  calculating  the  distance,  the  solid 
substance  with  a  faint  jar,  and  retired  like  a  ghost, 


270  A    House  in  Bloonisbury. 

while  she  sat  rigid,  looking  on ;  then  more 
cautiously,  more  slowly  still,  it  stole  forth  again, 
and  grasped  the  box.  Miss  Bethune  had  settled 
nothing  what  to  do,  she  had  thought  of  nothing 
but  the  misery  of  it,  she  had  intended,  so  far  as 
she  had  any  intention,  to  watch  while  the  tragedy 
was  played  out,  the  dreadful  act  accomplished. 
But  she  was  a  woman  of  sudden  impulses,  moved 
by  flashes  of  resolution  almost  independent  of  her 
will. 

Suddenly,  more  ghostlike  still  than  the  arm  of 
the  thief,  she  made  a  swift  movement  forward, 
and  put  her  hand  upon  his.  Her  grasp  seemed 
to  crush  through  the  quivering  clammy  fingers, 
and  she  felt  under  her  own  the  leap  of  the  pulses ; 
but  the  criminal  was  prepared  for  every  emer- 
gency, and  uttered  no  cry.  She  felt  the  quick 
noiseless  change  of  attitude,  and  then  the  free 
arm  swing  to  strike  her — heaven  and  earth  !  to 
strike  her,  a  woman  twice  his  age,  to  strike  her, 

his  friend,  his She  was  a  strong  woman,  in 

the  fulness  of  health  and  courage.  As  quick  as 
lightning,  she  seized  the  arm  as  it  descended,  and 
held  him  as  in  a  grip  of  iron.  Was  it  guilt  that 
made  him  like  a  child  in  her  hold?  He  had  a 
stick  in  his  hand,  shortened,  with  a  heavy  head, 
ready  to  deal  a  blow.  Oh,  the  coward,  the 
wretched  coward  !  She  held  him  panting  for  a 
moment,  unable  to  say  a  word  ;  and  then  she 
called  out  with  a  voice  that  was  no  voice,  but  a 
kind  of  roar  of  misery,  for  "  Gilchrist,  Gilchrist  !  " 

Gilchrist,  who  was  never  far  off,  who  always 
had  her  ear  open    for  her  mistress,   heard,  and 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  271 

came  flying  from  up  or  down  stairs  with  her 
candle :  and  some  one  else  heard  it,  who  was 
standing  pensive  on  the  balcony,  looking  out,  and 
wondering  what  fate  had  now  in  store  for  him, 
and  minoflinof  his  thouo-hts  with  the  wavinof  of 
the  trees  and  the  nameless  noises  of  the  street. 
Which  of  them  arrived  first  was  never  known,  he 
from  the  other  room  throwing  wide  the  door  of 
communication,^  or  she  from  the  stairs  with  the 
impish,  malicious  light  of  that  candle  throwing  in 
its  sudden  illumination  as  with  a  pleasure  in  the 
deed. 

The  spectators  were  startled  beyond  measure 
to  see  the  lady  in  apparent  conflict  with  a  man, 
but  they  had  no  time  to  make  any  remarks.  The 
moment  the  light  flashed  upon  her.  Miss  Bethune 
gave  a  great  cry.  "  It's  you,  ye  vermin  !  "  she 
cried,  flinging  the  furtive  creature  in  her  grasp 
from  her  against  the  wall,  which  half  stunned  him 
for  the  moment.  And  then  she  stood  for  a 
moment,  her  head  bent  back,  her  face  without  a 
trace  of  colour,  confronting  the  eager  figure  in 
the  doorway,  surrounded  by  the  glow  of  the  light, 
flying  forward  to  help  her. 

"O  God,  forgive  me!"  she  cried,  "God, 
forgive  me,  for  I  am  an  ill  woman  :  but  I  will 
never  forgive  myself !  " 

The  man  who  lay  against  the  wall,  having 
dropped  there  on  the  floor  with  the  vehemence 
of  her  action,  perhaps  exaggerating  the  force  that 
had  been  used  against  him,  to  excite  pity  —  for 
Gilchrist,  no  mean  opponent,  held  one  door,  and 
that  unexpected  dreadful  apparition  of  the  young 


272  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

man  out  of  the  lighted  room  bearing  down  upon 
him,  filled  the  other  —  was  Alfred  Hesketh,  white, 
miserable,  and  cowardly,  huddled  up  in  a  wretched 
heap,  with  furtive  eyes  gleaming,  and  the  heavy- 
headed  stick  furtively  grasped,  still  ready  to  deal 
an  unexpected  blow,  had  he  the  opportunity, 
though  he  was  at  the  same  time  rubbing  the  wrist 
that  held  it,  as  if  in  pain. 

Young  Gordon  had  made  a  hurried  step 
towards  him,  when  Miss  Bethune  put  out  her 
hand.  She  had  dropped  into  a  chair,  where  she 
sat  panting  for  breath. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  "  wait  till  I  can  speak." 

"  You  brute  !  "  cried  Harry  ;  "  how  dare  you 
come  in  here  ?  What  have  you  done  to  frip-hten 
the  lady  ? " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  strange  chuckle  of  a 
laugh  from  Miss  Bethune's  panting  throat. 

*'  It's  rather  me,  I'm  thinking,  that's  frightened 
him,"  she  said.  "  Ye  wretched  vermin  of  a  crea- 
ture, how  did  ye  know?  What  told  ye  in  your 
nieeserable  mind  that  there  was  something  here 
to  steal  ?  And  ye  would  have  struck  me  —  me 
that  am  dealing  out  to  ye  your  daily  bread  !  No, 
my  dear,  you're  not  to  touch  him  ;  don't  lay  a 
finger  on  him.  The  Lord  be  thanked  —  though 
(}od  forgive  me  for  thanking  Him  for  the  wicked- 
ness of  any  man  !  " 

How  enigmatical  this  all  was  to  Harry  Gor- 
don, and  how  little  he  could  imagine  any  clue 
to  the  mystery,  it  is  needless  to  say.  Gilchrist 
herself  thought  her  mistress  was  temporarily  out 
of    her    mind.       She    was    quicker,    however,    to 


A  House  in  Bloomsbiiry,  2 


/o 


realise  what  had  happened  than  the  young  man, 
who   did  not  think   of  the  jewels,  nor  remember 
anything    about    them.       Gilchrist    looked   with 
anxiety  at   her  lady's  white   face    and    gleaming' 
eyes. 

"Take  her  into  the  parlour,  Master  Harry," 
she  said  :  "  she's  just  done  out.  And  I'll  send  for 
the  police." 

"  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Gilchrist," 
said  Miss  Bethune.  "  Get  up,  ye  creature. 
You're  not  worth  either  man's  or  woman's  while  ; 
you  have  no  more  fusion  than  a  cat.  Get  up, 
and  begone,  ye  poor,  weak,  wretched,  cowardly 
vermin,  for  that's  what  ye  are  :  and  I  thank  the 
Lord  with  all  my  heart  that  it  was  only  you  ! 
Gilchrist,  stand  awa)-   from  the  door,  and  let  the 


creature  go." 


He  rose,  dragging  himself  up  by  degrees, 
with  a  furtive  look  at  Gordon,  who,  indeed,  looked 
a  still  less  easy  opponent  than  Miss  Bethune. 

"  I  take  that  gendeman  to  witness,"  he  said, 
"  as  there's  no  evidence  against  me  but  just  a 
lady's  fancy :  and  I've  been  treated  very  bad,  and 
my  wrist  broken,  for  aught  I  know,  and  bruised 
all  over,  and  I " 

Miss  Bethune  stamped  her  foot  on  the  floor. 
"  Begone,  ye  born  liar  and  robber  !  "  she  said. 
"  Gilchrist  will  see  ye  off  the  premises ;  and 
mind,  you  never  come  within  my  sight  again. 
Now,  Mr.  Harry,  as  she  calls  ye,  I'll  go  into  the 
parlour,  as  she  says ;  and  the  Lord,  that  only 
knows  the  wickedness  that  has  been  in  my  mind, 
foro^ive  me  this  nig-ht !  and  it  w^ould  be  a  comfort 

18 


2  74  ^  House  in  Bloovisbury. 

to  my  heart,  my  bonnie  man,  if  you  would  say 
Amen." 

"  Amen  with  all  my  heart,"  said  the  young 
man,  with  a  smile,  "  but,  so  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  your  wickedness  is  to  be  far  too  good  and 
fororivinof.  What  did  the  fellow  do  ?  I  confess  I 
should  not  like  to  be  called  a  vermin,  as  you 
called  him  freely  —  but  if  he  came  with  intent  to 
steal,  he  should  have  been  handed  over  to  the 
police,  indeed  he  should." 

"  I  am  more  worthy  of  the  police  than  him, 
if  ye  but  knew :  but,  heaven  be  praised,  you'll 
never  know.  I  mind  now,  he  came  with  a 
message  when  I  was  playing  with  these  wretched 
diamonds,  like  an  old  fool :  and  he  must  have 
seen  or  scented  them  with  the  creemJnal  instinct 
Dr.  Roland  speaks  about." 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  for  she  had  not  yet 
recovered  from  the  panting  of  excitement,  and 
then  told  her  story,  the  rustling  without,  the 
opening  of  the  door,  the  hand  extended  to  the 
box.  When  she  had  told  all  this  with  much 
vividness.  Miss  Bethune  suddenly  stopped,  drew 
another  long  breath,  and  dropped  back  upon  the 
sofa  where  she  was  sitting.  It  was  not  her  way  ; 
the  lights  had  been  dazzling  and  confusing  her 
ever  since  they  blazed  upon  her  by  the  opening 
of  the  two  doors,  and  the  overwhelming  horror, 
and  blessed  but  tremendous  revulsion  of  feelino-, 
which  had  passed  in  succession  over  her,  had 
been  more  than  her  strength,  already  undermined 
by  excitement,  could  bear.  Her  breath,  her 
consciousness,  her  life,  seemed  to  ebb  away  in  a 


A  House  271  Bloomsbury.  275 

moment,  leaving  only  a  pale  shadow  of  her,  fallen 
back  upon  the  cushions. 

Once  more  Harry  was  the  master  of  the  situa- 
tion. He  had  seen  a  woman  faint  before,  which 
was  almost  more  than  Gilchrist,  with  all  her  ex- 
perience, had  done,  and  he  had  the  usual  remedies 
at  his  fingers'  ends.  But  this  was  not  like  the 
usual  easy  faints,  over  in  a  minute,  to  which  young 
Gordon  had  been  accustomed,  and  Dr.  Roland 
had  to  be  summoned  from  below,  and  a  thrill  of 
alarm  had  run  through  the  house,  Mrs.  Simcox 
herself  coming  up  from  the  kitchen,  with  strong 
salts  and  feathers  to  burn,  before  Miss  Bethune 
came  to  herself.  The  house  was  frightened,  and 
so  at  last  was  the  experienced  Harry ;  but  Dr. 
Roland's  interest  and  excitement  may  be  said  to 
have  been  pleasurable.  "  I  have  always  thought 
this  was  what  was  likely.  I've  been  prepared  for 
it,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  hovered  round  the 
sofa.  It  would  be  wrong  to  suppose  that  he 
lengthened,  or  at  least  did  nothing  to  shorten,  this 
faint  for  his  own  base  purposes,  that  he  might  the 
better  make  out  certain  signs  which  he  thought 
he  had  recognised.  But  the  fact  was,  that  not 
only  Dora  had  come  from  abovestairs,  but  even 
Mr.  Mannering  had  dragged  himself  down,  on 
the  alarm  that  Miss  Bethune  was  dead  or  dying; 
and  that  the  whole  household  had  gathered  in  her 
room,  or  on  the  landing  outside  ;  while  she  lay, 
in  complicity  (or  not)  with  the  doctor,  in  that  long- 
continued  swoon,  which  the  spectators  afterwards 
said  lasted  an  hour,  or  two,  or  even  three  hours, 
according  to  their  temperaments. 


2/6  A  House  in  Bloonisbiiry. 

When  she  came  to  herself  at  last,  the  scene 
upon  which  she  opened  her  eyes  was  one  which 
helped  her  recovery  greatly,  by  filling  her  with 
wrath  and  indignation.  She  lay  in  the  middle  of 
her  room,  in  a  strong  draught,  the  night  air 
blowing  from  window  to  window  across  her,  the 
lamp  even  under  its  shade,  much  more  the  candles 
on  the  mantelpiece,  blown  about,  and  throwing  a 
wavering  glare  upon  the  agitated  group,  Gilchrist 
in  the  foregroimd  with  her  apron  at  her  eyes,  and 
behind  her  Dora,  red  with  restrained  emotions, 
and  Janie  and  Molly  crying  freely,  while  Mrs. 
Simcox  brandished  a  bunch  of  fuming  feathers, 
and  Mr.  Mannering  peered  over  the  landlady's 
head  with  his  "  pince-nez  "  insecurely  balanced  on 
his  nose,  and  his  legs  trembling  under  him  in 
a  harmony  of  unsteadiness,  but  anxiety.  Miss 
Bethune's  wrist  was  in  the  grasp  of  the  doctor ; 
and  Harry  stood  behind  with  a  fan,  which,  in  the 
strong  wind  blowing  across  her  from  window  to 
window,  struck  the  patient  as  ludicrously  un- 
necessary. "What  is  all  this  fuss  about?"  she 
cried,  trying  to  raise  herself  up. 

"There's  no  fuss,  my  dear  lady,"  said  the 
doctor;  "but  you  must  keep  perfectly  quiet." 

"  Oh,  you're  there,  Dr.  Roland  ?  Then  there's 
one  sane  ]x^rson.  But,  for  goodness'  sake,  make 
Mr.  Mannering  sit  down,  and  send  all  these  idiots 
away.  What's  the  matter  with  me,  that  I've  to 
get  my  death  of  cold,  and  be  murdered  with  that 
awful  smell,  and  even  Harry  Gordon  behaving 
like  a  fool,  making  an  air  with  a  fan,  when  there's 
a  gale  blowing  ?     Go  awa)'.  go  away." 


4  House  in  Bloomsbury.  277 

"  You  see  that  our  friend  has  come  to  herself," 
said  the  doctor.     "  Shut  that  window,  somebody, 
the  other  will  be  enough  ;   and,  my  dear  woman,  | 
for  the  sake  of  all  that's  good,  take  those  horrid , 
feathers  away." 

"  I  am  murdered  with  the  smell  !  "  cried  Miss 
Bethune,  placing  her  hands  over  her  face.  "  But 
make  Mr.  Mannering  sit  down,  he's  not  fit  to 
stand  after  his  illness  ;  and  Harry,  boy,  sit  down, 
too,  and  don't  drive  me  out  of  my  senses.  Go 
away,  go  all  of  you  away." 

The  last  to  be  got  rid  of  was  Dr.  Roland,  who 
assured  everybody  that  the  patient  was  now  quite 
well,  but  languid.  "  You  want  to  get  rid  of  me 
too,  I  know,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  going;  but  I 
should  like  to  see  you  in  bed  first." 

"  You  shall  not  see  me  in  bed,  nor  no  other 
man,"  said  Miss  Bethune.  "  I  will  go  to  bed  w^ien 
1  am  disposed,  doctor.  I'm  not  your  patient, 
mind,  at  all  events,  now." 

"  You  were  half  an  hour  since  :  but  I'm  not 
going  to  pretend  to  any  authority,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  I  hope  I  know  better.  Don't  agitate  yourself 
any  more,  if  you'll  be  guided  by  me.  You  have 
been  screwing  up  that  heart  of  yours  far  too  tight." 

"  How  do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  that  I  have 
got  a  heart  at  all  ?  " 

"  Probably  not  from  the  sentimental  point  of 
view,"  he  replied,  with  a  little  fling  of  sarcasm  : 
"but  I  know  you  couldn't  live  without  the  physical 
organ,  and  it's  over-strained.  Good-night,  since 
I  see  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me.  But  I'll  be 
handy  downstairs,  and  mind  you    come    for   me, 


278  A   House  in  Bloomsbury. 

Gilchrist,  on  the  moment  if  she  should  show  any 
signs  again." 

This  was  said  to  Gilchrist  in  an  undertone  as 
the  doctor  went  away. 

Miss  Bethune  sat  up  on  her  sofa,  still  very 
pale,  still  with  a  singing  in  her  ears,  and  the  glitter 
of  fever  in  her  eyes.  "  You  are  not  to  go  away, 
Harry,"  she  said.  "  I  have  something  to  tell  you 
before  you  go." 

"  Oh,  mem,"  said  Gilchrist,  "  for  any  sake,  not 
to-night."  ^ 

"  Go  away,  and  bide  away  till  I  send  for  you," 
cried  the  mistress.  "  And,  Harry,  sit  you  down 
here  by  me.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  story. 
This  night  has  taught  me  many  things.  I  might 
die,  or  I  might  be  murdered  for  the  sake  of  a  few 
gewgaws  that  are  nothing  to  me,  and  go  down  to 
my  grave  with  a  burden  on  my  heart.  I  want  to 
speak  before  I  die." 

"  Not  to-night,"  he  cried.  "  You  are  in  no 
danger.  I'll  sleep  here  on  the  sofa  by  way  of 
guard,  and  to-morrow  you  will  send  them  to  your 
bankers.     Don't  tire  yourself  any  more  to-night." 

"  You  are  like  all  the  rest,  and  understand 
nothing  about  it,"  she  cried  impatiently.  "  It  is 
just  precisely  now  that  I  will  speak,  and  no  other 
time.  Harry,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  story. 
It  is  like  most  women's  stories  —  about  a  young 
creature  that  was  beg-uiled  and  loved  a  man.  He 
was  a  man  that  had  a  fine  outside,  and  looked  as 
good  as  he  was  bonnie,  or  at  least  this  misfortu- 
nate  thing  thought  so.  He  had  nothing,  and  she 
had  nothing.     But  she  was  the  last  of  her  family, 


A  House  in  Blcomsbmy.  279 

and  would  come  into  a  good  fortune  if  she  pleased 
her  uncle  that  was  the  head  of  the  name.  But 
the  uncle  could  not  abide  this  man.  Are  you 
listening  to  me  ?  Mind,  it  is  a  story,  but  not  an 
idle  story,  and  every  word  tells.  Well,  she  was 
sent  away  to  a  lonely  country  place,  an  old 
house,  with  two  old  servants  in  it,  to  keep 
her  free  of  the  man.  But  the  man  followed  ; 
and  in  that  solitude  who  was  to  hinder  them 
seeing  each  other  ?  They  did  for  a  while 
every  day.  And  then  the  two  married  each 
other,  as  two  can  do  in  Scotland  that  make  up 
their  minds  to  risk  it,  and  were  livinor  too-ether  in 
secret  in  the  depths  of  the  Highlands,  as  I  told 
you.  nobody  knoAving  but  the  old  servants  that 
had  been  far  fonder  of  her  father  than  of  the  uncle 
that  was  head  of  the  house,  and  were  faithful  to 
her  in  life  and  death.  And  then  there  came 
terrible  news  that  the  master  was  cominor  back. 
That  poor  young  woman  —  oh,  she  was  a  fool,  and 
I  do  not  defend  her!  —  had  just  been  delivered  in 
secret,  in  trouble  and  misery  —  for  she  dared  not 
seek  help  or  nursing  but  what  she  got  at  home  — 
of  a  bonnie  bairn."  —  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
grasped  him  by  the  arm,  —  "a  boy,  a  darling, 
though  she  had  him  but  for  two  or  three  days. 
Think  if  you  can  what  that  was.  The  master 
coming  that  had,  so  to  speak,  the  power  of  life 
and  death  in  his  hands,  and  the  young,  subdued 
girl  that  he  had  put  there  to  be  in   safety,   the 

mother  of  a  son "     Miss  Bethune  drew  a  long 

breath.  She  silenced  the  remonstrance  on  the 
lips  of  her  hearer  by  a  gesture,  and  went  on  :  — 


28o  A  IIoiLse  in  Bloomsbury, 

"  It  was  the  man,  her  husband,  that  she  thought 
loved  her,  that  brought  the  news.  He  said  every- 
thing was  lost  if  it  should  be  known.  He  bid  her 
to  be  brave  and  put  a  good  face  upon  it,  for  his 
sake  and  the  boy's.  Keep  her  fortune  and  cling 
to  her  inheritance  she  must,  whatever  happened, 
for  their  sake.  And  while  she  was  dazed  in  her 
weakness,  and  could  not  tell  what  to  think,  he 
took  the  baby  out  of  her  arms,  and  carried  him 
away. 

"  Harry  Gordon,  that's  five  and  twenty  years 
ago,  and  man  or  bairn  I  have  never  seen  since, 
though  I  did  that  for  them.  I  dreed  my  weird 
for  ten  long  years — ten  years  of  mortal  trouble  — 
and  never  said  a  word,  and  nobody  knew.  Then 
my  uncle  died,  and  the  money,  the  terrible  money, 
bought  with  my  life's  blood,  became  mine.  And 
I  looked  for  him  then  to  come  back.  But  he 
never  came  back  nor  word  nor  sign  of  him.  And 
my  son  —  the  father,  I  had  discovered  what  he 
was,  I  wanted  never  to  hear  his  name  again  —  but 
my  son —  Harry  Gordon,  that's  you  !  They  may 
say  what  they  will,  but  I  know  better.  Who 
should  know,  if  not  the  mother  who  bore  you  ? 
My  heart  went  out  to  you  when  I  saw  you  first, 
and  yours  to  me.  You'll  not  tell  me  that  your 
heart  did  not  speak  for  your  mother?  It  is  you, 
my  darling,  it  is  you  !  " 

He  had  staggered  to  his  feet,  pale,  trembling, 
and  awe-stricken.  The  sight  of  her  emotion,  the 
pity  of  her  story,  the  revolt  and  resistance  in  his 
own  heart  were  too  much  for  him.  "I!"  he 
cried. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

Harry  Gordon  passed  the  night  upon  the  sofa 
in  Miss  Bethune's  sitting-room.  It  was  his  opin- 
ion that  her  nerves  were  so  shaken  and  her  mind 
so  agitated  that  the  consciousness  of  having  some 
one  at  hand  within  call,  in  case  of  anything  hap- 
pening, was  of  the  utmost  consequence.  I  don't 
know  that  any  one  else  in  the  house  entertained 
these  sentiments,  but  it  was  an  idea  in  which  he 
could  not  be  shaken,  his  experience  all  tending  in 

that  way. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  nerves  were  scarcely 
less  shaken  than  he  imagined  hers  to  be.  His 
mother !  Was  that  his  mother  who  called  good- 
night to  him  from  the  next  room  ?  who  held  that 
amusing  colloquy  with  the  doctor  through  the 
closed  door,  defying  all  interference,  and  bidding 
Dr.  Roland  look  after  his  patient  upstairs,  and 
leave  her  in  peace  with  Gilchrist,  who  was  better 
than  any  doctor?  Was  that  his  mother?  His 
heart  beat  with  a  strange  confusion,  but  made  no 
answer.  And  his  thoughts  went  over  all  the 
details  with  an  involuntary  scepticism.  No,  there 
was  no  voice  of  nature,  as  she  had  fondly  hoped  ; 
nothing  but  the  merest  response  to  kind  words 
and  a  kind  look  had  drawn  him  towards  this  old 
Scotch  maiden  lady,  who  he  had  thought,  with  a 
smile,  reminded  him  of  something  in  Scott,  and 

(281) 


282  A  House  in  Bloonisdnry. 

therefore    had    an   attraction   such  as  belongrs  to 

o 

those  whom  we  may  have  known  in  some  previous 
state  of  beinor. 

What  a  strange  fate  was  his,  to  be  drawn  into 
one  circle  after  another,  one  family  after  another, 
to  which  he  had  no  rio^ht !  And  how  was  he  to 
convince  this  lady,  who  was  so  determined  in  her 
own  way  of  thinking,  that  he  had  no  right,  no 
title,  to  consider  himself  her  son  ?  But  had  he 
indeed  no  title  ?  Was  she  likely  to  make  such  a 
statement  without  proof  that  it  was  true,  without 
evidence  ?  He  thought  of  her  with  a  kind  of 
amused  but  by  no  means  disrespectful  admiration, 
as  she  had  stood  flinging  from  her  the  miserable 
would-be  thief,  the  wretched,  furtive  creature  who 
was  no  match  for  a  resolute  and  dauntless  woman. 
All  the  women  Harry  had  ever  known  would 
have  screamed  or  fled  or  fainted  at  siofht  of  a  live 
burglar  in  their  very  bed-chamber.  She  flung  him 
off  like  a  fly,  like  a  reptile.  That  was  not  a  weak 
woman,  liable  to  be  deceived  by  any  fancy.  She 
had  the  look  in  her  eyes  of  a  human  creature  afraid 
of  nothing,  ready  to  confront  any  danger.  And 
could  she  then  be  so  easily  deceived  ?  Or  was  it 
true,  actually  true?  Was  he  the  son — not  of  a 
woman  whom  it  mifrht  be  shame  to  discover,  as 
he  had  always  feared  —  but  of  a  spotless  mother,  a 
person  of  note,  with  an  established  position  and 
secure  fortune  ?  The  land  which  he  was  to 
manage,  which  she  had  roused  him  almost  to 
enthusiasm  about,  by  her  talk  of  crofters  and 
cotters  to  be  helped  forward,  and  human  service 
to  be  done  —  was  that  land  his  own,  coming  to  him 


A  House  Z7i  Bloomsbiiry.  283 

by  right,  his  natural  place  and  inheritance  ?  Was 
he  no  waif  and  stray,  no  vague  atom  in  the  world 
drifting  hither  and  thither,  but  a  man  with  an 
assured  position,  a  certain  home,  a  place  in  society  ? 
How  different  from  going  back  to  South  America, 
and  at  the  best  becoming  a  laborious  clerk  where 
he  had  been  the  young  master !  But  he  could 
not  believe  in  it. 

He  lay  there  silent  through  the  short  summer 
night,  moving  with  precaution  upon  the  uneasy 
couch,  which  was  too  short  and  too  small,  but 
where  the  good  fellow  would  have  passed  the 
night  waking  and  dosing  for  anybody's  comfort, 
even  were  it  only  an  old  woman's  who  had  been 
kind  to  him.  But  was  she  his  mother  —  his 
mother  ?  He  could  not  believe  it —  he  could  not, 
he  could  not !  Her  wonderful  speeches  and  looks 
were  all  explained  now,  and  went  to  his  heart : 
but  they  did  not  convince  him,  or  bring  any 
enliofhtenment  into  his.  Was  she  the  victim  of 
an  illusion,  poor  lady,  self-deceived  altogether  ? 
Or  was  there  something  in  it,  or  was  there  nothing 
in  it  ?  He  thought  of  his  father,  and  his  heart 
revolted.  His  poor  father,  whom  he  remembered 
with  the  halo  round  him  of  childish  affection,  but 
whom  he  had  learned  to  see  through  other  people's 
eyes,  not  a  strong  man,  not  good  for  very  much, 
but  yet  not  one  to  desert  a  woman  who  trusted 
in  him.  But  of  the  young  man's  thoughts  through 
that  long  uneasy  night  there  was  no  end.  He 
heard  whisperings  and  movements  in  the  next 
room,  subdued  for  his  sake  as  he  subdued  his 
inclination   to   turn   and  toss  upon   his    sofa   for 


284  A  House  ill  Bloornsbiiry. 

hers,  durlnor  half  the  night.  And  then  when  the 
dayhght  came  bright  into  the  room  through  the 
bars  of  the  Venetian  bhnd  there  came  silence,  just 
when  he  had  fully  woke  up  to  the  consciousness 
that  life  had  begun  again  in  a  new  world.  A 
little  later,  Gilchrist  stole  into  his  room,  bringing 
him  a  cup  of  tea.  "  You  must  come  upstairs  now  ; 
there's  a  room  where  ye  will  get  some  sleep. 
She's  sound  now,  and  it's  broad  daylight,  and  no 
fear  of  any  disturbance,"  she  said. 

"  I  want  no  more  sleep.  I'll  go  and  get  a 
bath,  and  be  ready  for  whatever  is  \vanted."  He 
caught  her  apron  as  she  was  turning  away,  that 
apron  on  whicli  so  many  hems  had  been  folded. 
"  Don't  go  away,"  he  said.  "  Speak  to  me,  tell 
me,  Gilchrist,  for  heaven's  sake,  is  this  true  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  knows !  "  cried  Gilchrist,  shaking 
her  head  and  clasping  her  hands;  "but  oh,  my 
young  gentleman,  dinna  ask  me  !  " 

"Whom  can  I  ask?"  he  said.  "Surely, 
surely  you,  that  have  been  always  with  her,  can 
throw  some  light  upon  it.     Is  it  true  ? " 

"  It  is  true  —  true  as  death,"  said  the  woman, 
"  that  all  that  happened  to  my  dear  leddy  ;  but 
oh,  if  you  are  the  bairn,  the  Lord  knows ;  he  was 
but  two  days  old,  and  he  would  have  been  about 
your  age.  1  can  say  not  a  word,  but  only  the 
Lord  knows.  And  there's  nothinor — nothino^, 
though  she  thinks  sae,  that  speaks  in  your 
heart  ? " 

He  shook  his  head,  with  a  faint  smile  upon 
his  face. 

"  Oh,  dinna  laugh,  dinna  laugh.     I  canna  bear 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  285 

it,  Mr.  Harry  ;  true  or  no'  true,  it's  woven  in  with 
every  fibre  o'  her  heart.  You  have  nae  parents, 
my  bonnie  man.  Oh,  could  you  no'  take  it  upon 
ye,  true  or  no'  true  ?  There's  naebody  I  can  hear 
of  that  it  would  liarm  or  wrong  if  you  were  to 
accept  it.  And  there's  naebody  kens  but  me  how 
good  she  is.  Her  exterior  is  maybe  no'  sae 
smooth  as  many  ;  but  her  heart  it  is  gold  —  oh,  her 
heart  it  is  gold !  For  God's  sake,  who  is  the 
Father  of  all  of  us,  and  full  of  mercy  —  such  peety 
as  a  father  hath  unto  his  children  dear  —  oh,  my 
young  man,  let  her  believe  it,  take  her  at  her 
word  !  You  will  make  her  a  happy  woman  at 
the  end  of  a'  her  trouble,  and  it  will  do  ye  nae 
harm." 

"  Not  if  it  is  a  fiction  all  the  time,"  he  said, 
shaking  his  head. 

"Who  is  to  prove  it's  a  fiction?  He  would 
have  been  your  age.  She  thinks  you  have  your 
gfrandfather's  een.  I'm  no'  sure  now  I  look  at 
you  but  she's  right.  She's  far  more  likely  to  be 
right  than  me  :  and  now  I  look  at  you  well  I  think 
I  can  see  it.  Oh,  Mr.  Harry,  what  harm  would 
it  do  you  ?  A  good  home  and  a  good  inheritance, 
and  to  make  her  happy.  Is  that  no'  worth  while, 
even  if  maybe  it  were  not  what  you  would  think 
perfitly  true  ?  " 

"  It  can't  be  half  true,  Gilchrist ;  it  must  be 
whole  or  nothing." 

"Weel,  then,  it's  whole  true;  and  I'll  gang 
to  the  stake  for  it.  Is  she  not  the  one  that  should 
know  ?  And  if  you  were  to  cast  her  off  the  morn 
and  break  her  heart,  she  would  still  believe  it  till 


286  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

her  dying  day.  Turn  round  your  head  and  let  me 
look  at  you  again.  Oh,  laddie,  if  I  were  to  gang 
to  the  stake  for  it,  you  have  —  you  have  your 
iJ^randfather's  een !  " 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

The  house  in  Bloomsbury  was  profoundly  agi- 
tated by  all  these  discoveries.  Curiously  enough, 
and  against  all  the  previsions  of  his  friends,  Mr. 
JMannering  had  not  been  thrown  back  by  the 
excitement.  The  sharp  sting  of  these  events 
which  had  brought  back  before  him  once  more 
the  traofic  climax  of  his  life  —  the  time  when  he 
had  come  back  as  out  of  the  grave  and  found  his 
home  desolate  —  when  his  wife  had  fled  before  his 
face,  not  daring  to  meet  his  eye,  although  she 
had  not  knowingly  sinned  against  him,  and  when 
all  the  triumph  of  his  return  to  life,  and  of  his 
discoveries  and  the  fruit  of  his  dreadful  labours, 
had  become  bitterness  to  him  and  miserv  —  came 
back  upon  him.  ever\'  incident  standing  out  as  it 
it  had  been  yesterday.  He  had  fallen  into  the 
dead  calm  of  failure,  he  had  dropped  his  tools 
from  his  hands,  and  all  his  ambition  from  his 
heart.  He  had  retired  —  he  who  had  reappeared 
in  existence  after  all  his  sufferings,  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  now  the  ball  was  at  his  foot,  and 
fame  if  not  fortune  secured  —  into  the  second 
desert,  more  impenetrable  than  any  African 
forest,  of  these  rooms  in  Bloomsbury,  and  vege- 
tated there  all  these  years,  forgetting  more  or  less 
all  that  had  happened  to  him,  and  all  that  might 
have  happened  to  him,  and  desiring  only  to  linger 

(287) 


288  A  Hotise  in  Bloomsbury, 

out  the  last  of  his  Hfe  unknowing  and  unknown. 
And  now  into  his  cahn  there  had  come  back, 
clear  as  yesterday,  all  that  terrible  climax,  every 
detail  of  his  own  tragedy. 

It  ought  to  have  killed  him :  that  would  have 
seemed  the  most  likely  event  in  his  weakness, 
after  his  long  illness;  and  perhaps, — who  could 
say  ?  —  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened,  in 
face  of  the  new  circumstances,  which  he  could  not 
accept  and  had  no  right  to  refuse.  But  no,  it  did 
not  kill  him.  It  acted  upon  him  as  great  trouble 
acts  on  some  minds,  like  a  strong  stimulant.  It 
stung  him  back  into  life,  it  seemed  to  transfuse 
something,  some  new  revivifying  principle,  into 
his  veins.  He  had  wanted,  perhaps,  something  to 
disperse  the  mists  of  illness  and  physical  dejection. 
He  found  it  not  in  soothing  influences  or  pleasure, 
but  in  pain.  From  the  day  when  he  stumbled 
downstairs  to  Miss  Bethune's  room  on  the  dread- 
ful report  that  she  was  dying,  he  began  at  once  to 
resume  his  usual  habits,  and  with  almost  more 
than  his  usual  strength.  Was  it  possible  that 
Death,  that  healer  of  all  wounds,  that  peacemaker 
in  all  tumults,  had  restored  a  rest  that  was  wanting 
to  the  man's  secret  heart,  never  disclosed  to  any 
ear  ?  She  was  dead,  the  woman  who  unwittingly, 
without  meaning  it,  had  made  of  his  life  the  silent 
tragedy  it  had  been.  That  she  was  guiltless,  and 
that  the  catastrophe  was  all  a  terrible  mistake,  had 
made  it  worse  instead  of  better.  He  had  thought 
often  that  had  she  erred  in  passion,  had  she  been 
carried  away  from  him  by  some  strong  gale  of 
personal  feeling,  it  would  have  been  more  bear- 


A  House  in  Bloomsbuiy.  289 

able  :  but  the  cruel  fatality,  the  network  of  accident 
which  had  made  his  life  desolate,  and  hers  he  knew 
not  what  —  this  was  what  was  intolerable,  a  thing 
not  to  bear  thinking-  of. 

But  now  she  was  dead,  all  the  misery  over, 
nothing  left  but  the  silence.  She  had  been 
nothing  to  him  for  years,  torn  out  of  his  heart, 
flung  out  of  his  life,  perhaps  with  too  little  pity, 
perhaps  with  little  perception  of  the  great  sacri- 
fice she  had  made  in  giving  up  to  him  without 
even  a  protest  her  only  child  :  but  her  very  exist- 
ence had  been  a  canker  in  his  life  ;  the  thought 
that  still  the  same  circle  of  earth  enclosed  them  — 
him  and  the  woman  who  had  once  been  every- 
thing to  him,  and  then  nothing,  yet  always  some- 
thing, something,  a  consciousness,  a  fever,  a  jarring 
note  that  set  all  life  out  of  tune.  And  now  she 
was  dead.  The  strong  pain  of  all  this  revival 
stung  him  back  to  strength.  He  went  out  in 
defiance  of  the  doctor,  back  to  his  usual  work, 
resuming  the  daily  round.  He  had  much  to  meet, 
to  settle,  to  set  right  again,  in  his  renewed  exist- 
ence. And  she  was  dead.  The  other  side  of 
life  was  closed  and  sealed,  and  the  stone  rolled  to 
^  the  door  of  the  sepulchre.  Nothing  could  happen 
to  bring  that  back,  to  renew  any  consciousness  of 
it  more.  Strange  and  sad  and  disturbing  as  this 
event  was,  it  seemed  to  settle  and  clear  the  turbid 
current  of  a  spoiled  life. 

And  perhaps  the  other  excitement  and  climax 
of  the  life  of  his  neighbour  which  had  been  going 
on  under  the  same  roof,  helped  Mr.  Mannering  in 
the  renewal  of  his  own  history.     When  he  heard 

19 


290  A  House  in  Bloonisbitry. 

Miss  Bethune's  story,  the  silent  rebellion  against 
his  own,  which  had  been  ever  in  his  mind,  was 
silenced.  It  is  hard,  in  the  comparison  of 
troubles,  which  people  who  have  been  more  or 
less  crushed  in  life  are  so  fond  of  making,  when 
brought  into  sufficiendy  intimate  relation  with 
each  other,  to  have  to  acknowledge  that  perhaps 
a  brother  pilgrim,  a  sister,  has  had  more  to  bear 
than  oneself.  Even  in  misery  we  love  to  be 
foremost,  to  have  the  bitter  in  our  cup  acknow- 
ledged as  more  bitter  than  that  of  others. 
But  yet,  when  Mr.  Mannering  heard,  as  she 
could  tell  him,  the  story  of  the  woman  who  had 
lived  so  near  him  for  years  with  that  unsuspected 
secret,  he  did  not  deny  that  her  lot  had  been 
more  terrible  than  his  own.  Miss  Bethune  was 
eager  to  communicate  her  own  tale  in  those  days 
of  excitement  and  transition.  She  went  to  him 
of  her  own  accord  after  the  first  day  of  his  re- 
turn to  his  work,  while  the  doctor  hovered  about 
the  stairs,  up  and  down,  and  could  not  rest,  in 
terror  for  the  result.  "  Dr.  Roland  could  not  be- 
lieve that  his  patient  would  not  break  down.  He 
could  not  go  out,  nor  even  sit  quietly  in  his  own 
room,  less  he  should  be  wanted,  and  not  ready  at 
the  first  call.  He  could  not  refrain  from  a  gibe  at 
the  lady  he  met  on  the  stairs.  "  Yes,  b)-  all 
means,"  he  said,  "  go  and  tell  him  all  about  your 
own  business.  Go  and  send  him  out  to  look  after 
that  wretched  Hesketh,  whom  you  are  going  to 
keep  up,  I  hear,  all  the  same." 

"  Not  him,  doctor.     The  poor  unhappy  young 
creature,  his  wife." 


A  House  in  Bloonisbiiry.  291 

"  Oh,  yes ;  that  is  how  these  miserable  villains 
o-et  hold  upon  people  of  weak  minds.  His  wife  ! 
I'd  have  sent  him  to  gaol.  His  wife  would  have 
been  far  better  without  a  low  blackguard  like  that. 
But  don't  let  me  keep  you.  Go  and  give  the 
coup  de  grace  to  Mannering.  I  shall  be  ready, 
whatever  happens,  downstairs." 

But  Miss  Bethune  did  not  give  Mannering  the 
coup  de  grace.  On  the  contrary,  she  helped  for- 
ward the  cure  which  the  climax  of  his  own  per- 
sonal tragedy  had  begun.  It  gave  both  these 
people  a  kind  of  forlorn  pleasure  to  think  that 
there  was  a  kind  of  resemblance  in  their  fate,  and 
that  they  had  lived  so  long  beside  each  other 
without  knowing  it,  without  suspecting  how  un- 
like other  people  their  respective  lives  had  been. 
The  thought  of  the  unhappy  young  woman,  whose 
husband  of  a  year  and  whose  child  of  a  day  had 
been  torn  from  her,  who  had  learnt  so  sadly  to 
know  the  unworthiness  of  the  one,  and  whose 
heart  and  imagination  had  for  five  and  twenty 
years  dwelt  upon  the  other,  without  any  possible 
outlet,  and  with  a  hope  which  she  had  herself 
known  to  be  fantastic  and  without  hope,  filled 
Mannering  with  a  certain  awe.  He  had  suffered 
for  little  more  than  half  that  time,  and  he  had  not 
been  deprived  of  his  Dora.  He  began  to  think 
j)!tifully,  even  mercifully,  of  the  woman  who  had 
left  him  that  one  alleviation  in  his  life. 

"  I  bow  my  head  before  her,"  Miss  Bethune 
said.  "  She  must  have  been  a  just  woman.  The 
bairn  was  yours,  and  she  had  no  right  to  take  her 
from  you.     She  fled  before  your  appearance,  she 


292  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

could  not  look  you  in  the  face,  but  she  left  the 
little  child  that  she  adored  to  be  your  comfort. 
Mr.  Mannering,  you  will  come  with  me  to  that 
poor  woman's  grave,  and  you  will  forgive  her. 
She  gave  you  up  what  was  most  dear  to  her  in 
life." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  She  had  others  that 
were  more  dear  to  her." 

"  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart,  if  I  were  you,  to 
hope  that  it  was  so ;  but  I  do  not  believe  it. 
How  could  she  look  you  in  the  face  again,  having 
sinned  against  you  ?  But  she  left  you  what  she 
loved  most.  '  Dora,  Dora,'  was  all  her  cry :  but 
she  put  Dora  out  of  her  arms  for  you.  Think 
kindly  of  her,  man  !  A  woman  loves  nothing  on 
this  earth,"  cried  Miss  Bethune  with  passion, 
"  like  the  little  child  that  has  come  from  her,  and 
is  of  her,  flesh  of  her  flesh,  bone  of  her  bone : 
and  she  gave  that  over  to  you.  She  must  have 
been  a  woman  more  just  than  most  other  women,'* 
Miss  Bethune  said. 

Mr.  Mannering  made  no  reply.  Perhaps  he 
did  not  understand  or  believe  in  that  definition  of 
what  a  woman  loves  best ;  but  he  thought  of  the 
passion  of  the  other  woman  before  him,  and  of 
the  lonor  hunofer  of  her  heart,  with  nothino-  to 
solace  her,  nothingr  to  divert  her  thouMits  from 
that  hopeless  loss  and  vacancy,  nothing  to  com- 
pensate her  for  the  ruin  of  her  life.  She  had  been 
a  spirit  in  prison,  shut  up  as  in  an  iron  cage,  and 
she  had  borne  it  and  not  uttered  even  a  cry.  All 
three,  or  rather  all  four,  of  these  lives,  equally 
shipwrecked,  came  before  him.     His  own  stricken 


A    House  in  Bloomsbuiy.  293 

low  in  what  would  have  been  the  triumph  of  an- 
other man  ;  his  wife's,  turned  in  a  moment  from 
such  second  possibihties  of  happiness  as  he  could 
not  yet  bear  to  think  of,  and  from  the  bliss  of  her 
child,  into  shame  and  guilt  such  as  did  not  permit 
her  to  look  her  husband  in  the  face,  but  drove  her 
into  exile  and  renunciation.  And  then  this  other 
pair.  The  woman  with  her  secret  romance,  and 
long,  long  penitence  and  punishment.  The  man 
(whom  she  condemned  yet  more  bitterly,  perhaps 
with  better  cause  than  he  had  condemned  his 
wife),  a  fugitive  too,  disappearing  from  country 
and  home  with  the  infant  who  died,  or  who  did 
not  die.  What  a  round  of  dreadful  mistake,  mis- 
apprehension, rashness,  failure!  And  who  was  he 
that  he  should  count  himself  more  badly  treated 
than  other  men  ? 

Miss  Bethune  thus  gave  him  no  coup  de  grace. 
She  helped  him  after  the  prick  of  revival,  to 
another  more  steadfast  philosophy,  in  the  com- 
parison of  his  fate  with  that  of  others.  He  saw 
with  very  clear  eyes  her  delusion  —  that  Harry 
Gordon  was  no  son  of  hers,  and  that  she  would  be 
compelled  to  acknowledge  this  and  go  back  to  the 
dreariness  and  emptiness  of  her  life,  accepting  the 
dead  baby  as  all  that  ever  w^as  hers :  and  he  was 
sorry  for  her  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart;  while  she, 
full  of  her  illusions,  went  back  to  her  own  apart- 
ment full  of  pity  for  him,  to  whom  Dora  did  not 
make  up  for  everything  as  Harr)^  she  felt  triumph- 
antly, did  to  herself. 

Dr.  Roland  watched  them  both,  more  concerned 
for  Mannering,  who  had  been  ill,  than  for  Miss 


294  ^"^  House  ill  BJoomsbujy. 

Bethune,  who  had  all  that  curious  elasticity  which 
makes  a  woman  generally  so  much  more  the 
servant  of  her  emotions  than  a  man,  often,  in  fact, 
so  much  less  affected  by  them.  But  there  still 
remained  in  the  case  of  the  patient  another  fiery 
trial  to  go  through,  which  still  kept  the  doctor  on 
the  alert  and  anxiously  watching  the  course  of 
events.  Mannerlnof  had  said  nothlnof  of  Dora's 
fortune,  of  the  money  which  he  had  refused 
vehemently  for  her,  but  which  he  had  no  right  to 
refuse,  and  upon  which,  as  Dr.  Roland  was  aware, 
she  had  already  drawn.  One  ordeal  had  passed, 
and  had  done  no  harm,  but  this  other  was  still  to 
come. 

It  came  a  day  or  two  after,  when  Dr.  Roland 
sat  by  Mannerlng's  side  after  his  return  from  the 
Museum,  holding  his  pulse,  and  investigating  in 
evci*y  way  the  effect  upon  him  of  the  day's  confine- 
ment. It  was  evenino-  and  the  dav  had  been  hot 
and  fatiguing.  Mr,  Mannering  was  a  little  tired 
of  this  medical  Inspection,  which  occurred  every 
evenino;.  He  drew  his  wrist  out  of  the  doctor's 
hold,  and  turned  the  conversation  abruptly  to  a 
new  subject. 

"There  are  a  number  of  papers  which  I  cannot 
find,"  he  said,  almost  sharply,  to  Dora,  with  a 
meaning  which  immediately  seemed  to  make  the 
air  tlnofle.  He  had  recovered  his  usual  looks  In  a 
remarkable  deofrcc,  and  liad  even  a  little  colour  In 
his  cheek.  His  head  was  not  drooping,  nor  his 
eye  dim.  The  stoop  of  a  man  occupied  all  day 
among  books  seemed  to  have  disappeared.  He 
leaned  back  In  his  chair  a  little,  perhaps,  but  not 


A  House  ill  Bloomsbtny.  295 

forward,  as  is  the  habit  of  weakness,  and  was  not 
afraid  to  look  the  doctor  in  the  face.  Dora  stood 
near  him,  alarmed,  in  the  attitude  of  one  about  to 
flee.  She  was  eager  to  leave  him  with  the  doctor, 
of  whom  he  could  ask  no  such  difficult  questions. 

"'Papers,  father?  What  papers?"  she  said, 
with  an  air  of  innocence  which  perhaps  was  a  little 
overdone. 

"My  business  affairs  are  not  so  extensive,"  he 
said,  with  a  faint  smile  ;  "  and  both  you,  doctor, 
who  really  are  the  author  of  the  extravagance, 
and  Dora,  who  is  too  young  to  meddle  with  such 
matters,  know  all  about  them.  My  bills  !  — 
Heaven  knows  they  are  enough  to  scare  a  poor 
man  :  but  they  must  be  found.  They  were  all 
there  a  few  days  ago,  now  I  can't  find  them. 
Bring  them,  Dora.  I  must  make  a  composition 
with  my  creditors,"  he  said,  again,  with  that 
forced  and  uncomfortable  smile.  Then  he  added, 
with  some  impatience  :  "  My  dear,  do  what  I  tell 
you,  and  do  it  at  once." 

It  was  an  emergency  which  Dora  had  been 
looking  forward  to,  but  that  did  not  make  it  less 
terrible  when  it  came.  She  stood  very  upright, 
holding  by  the  table. 

"  The  bills  ?  I  don't  know  where  to  find 
them,"  she  said,  growing  suddenly  very  red,  and 
then  very  pale. 

'*  Dora  !  "  cried  her  father,  in  a  warning  tone. 
Then  he  added,  with  an  attempt  at  banter : 
*'  Never  mind  the  doctor.  The  doctor  is  in  it ; 
he  ought  to  pay  half.  We  will  take  his  advice. 
How  small  a  dividend  will  content  our  creditors 


296  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

for  the  present  ?  Make  haste,  and  do  not  lose 
any  more  time." 

Dora  stood  her  ground  without  wavering. 
"  I  cannot  find  them,  father,"  she  said. 

"  You  cannot  find  them  ?  Nonsense  !  This 
is  for  my  good,  I  suppose,  lest  I  should  not  be 
able  to  bear  it.  My  dear,  your  father  declines  to 
be  managed  for  his  good." 

'^  I  have  not  got  them,"  said  Dora  firmly,  but 
very  pale.  "I  don't  know  where  to  find  them; 
I  don't  want  to  find  them,  if  I  must  say  it,  father, 
—  not  to  manage  you,  but  on  my  own  account." 

He  raised  himself  upright  too,  and  looked  at 
her.  Their  eyes  shone  with  the  same  glow ;  the 
two  faces  bore  a  strange  resemblance,  —  his,  the 
lines  refined  and  softened  by  his  illness ;  hers, 
every  curve  straightened  and  strengthened  by  force 
of  passionate  feeling.  ^ 

"  Father,"  said  Dora  almost  fiercely,  "  I  am 
not  a  child  !  " 

"  You  are  not  a  child?"  A  faint  smile  came 
over  his  face.  "You  are  curiously  like  one,"  he 
said  ;  "  but  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Mannering,  she  is  quite  right.  You  ought 
to  let  her  have  her  own  way." 

A  cloud  crossed  Mr.  Mannering's  face.  He 
was  a  mild  man,  but  he  did  not  easily  brook  inter- 
ference. He  made  a  slight  gesture,  as  if  throwing 
the  intruder  off. 

"  Father,"  said  Dora  again,  "  I  have  been  the 
mistress  of  everything  while  you  have  been  ill. 
You  may  say  the  doctor  has  done  it,  or  Miss 
Bethune  has  done  it, —  they  were  very  kind  friends, 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  297 

and  told  me  what  to  do,  —  but  it  was  only  your 
own  child  that  had  the  right  to  do  things  for  you, 
and  the  real  person  was  me.  I  was  a  little  girl 
when  you  began  to  be  ill,  but  I  am  not  so  now. 
I've  had  to  act  for  myself,  father,"  the  girl  cried, 
the  colour  flaming  back  into  her  pale  cheeks, 
"  I've  had  to  be  responsible  for  a  great  many 
things ;  you  can't  take  that  from  me,  for  it  had  to 
be.     And  you  have  not  got  a  bill  in  the  world." 

He  sat  staring  at  her,  half  angry,  half  admiring, 
amazed  by  the  change,  the  development ;  and  yet 
to  find  her  in  her  impulsive,  childish  vehemence 
exactly  the  same. 

"They're  all  gone,"  cried  Dora,  with  that 
dreadful  womanish  inclination  to  cry  ;  which  spoils 
so  many  a  fine  climax.  "  I  had  a  right  to  them  — 
they  were  mine  all  through,  and  not  yours. 
Father,  even  Fiddler !  I've  given  you  a  present 
of  that  big  book,  which  I  almost  broke  my  arm 
(if  it  had  not  been  for  Harry  Gordon)  carrying 
back.  And  now  I  know  it's  quarter  day,  and 
you're  quite  well  off.  Father,  now  I'm  your  little 
girl  again,  to  do  what  you  like  and  go  where  you 
like,  and  never,  never  hear  a  word  of  this  more," 
cried  Dora,  flinging  herself  upon  his  shoulder, 
with  her  arms  round  his  neck,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
tenderness  and  tears. 

What  was  the  man  to  do  or  say  ?  He  had 
uttered  a  cry  of  pain  and  shame,  and  something 
like  fury  ;  but  with  the  girl  clinging  round  his  neck, 
sobbing,  flung  upon  his  mercy,  he  was  helpless. 
He  looked  over  Dora's  bright  head  at  Dr. 
Roland    with,   notwithstanding  his   impatience  of 


298  A  House  ill  Bloomsbury. 

interference,  a  sort  of  appeal  for  help.  How- 
ever keen  the  pang  was  both  to  his  heart  and  his 
pride,  he  could  not  throw  off  his  only  child  from 
her  shelter  in  his  arms.  After  a  moment  his  hand 
instinctively  came  upon  her  hair,  smoothing  it 
down,  soothing  her,  though  half  against  his  will. 
The  other  arm,  with  which  he  had  half  put  her 
away,  stole  round  her  with  a  softer  pressure.  His 
child,  his  only  child,  all  of  his,  belonging  to  no 
one  but  him,  and  weeping  her  heart  out  upon  his 
neck,  altogether  thrown  upon  him  to  be  excused 
and  pardoned  for  having  given  him  all  the  tend- 
ance and  care  and  help  which  it  was  in  her  to 
give.  He  looked  at  Roland  with  a  half  appeal, 
yet  with  that  unconscious  pride  of  superiority  in 
the  man  who  has,  towards  the  man  who  has 
not. 

"  She  has  the  right,"  said  the  doctor,  himself 
moved,  but  not  perhaps  with  any  sense  of  inferi- 
ority, for  though  he  was  nearly  as  old  as  Mr. 
Mannering,  the  beatitude  of  having  a  daughter 
had  not  yet  become  an  ideal  bliss  to  him  —  "  she 
has  the  right ;  if  anybody  in  the  world  has 
it,  she  has  it,  Mannering,  and  though  she  is  a 
child,  she  has  a  heart  and  judgment  as  good  as 
any  of  us.  You'll  have  to  let  her  do  in  certain 
matters  what  seemeth  good  in  her  own  eyes." 

Mr.  Mannering  shook  his  head,  and  then  bent 
it  in  reluctant  acquiescence  with  a  sigh. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

The    house    in    Bloomsbury  became  vacant    and 
silent. 

The  people  who  had  given  it  interest  and  im- 
portance were  dispersed  and  gone.  Dr.  Roland 
only  remained,  solitary  and  discontented,  feeling 
himself  cast  adrift  in  the  world,  angry  at  the 
stillness  overhead,  where  the  solid  foot  of  Gil- 
christ no  lono^er  made  the  floor  creak,  or  the 
lighter  step  of  her  mistress  sent  a  thrill  of  energy 
and  life  through  it ;  but  still  more  angry  when 
new  lodgers  came,  and  new  steps  sounded  over 
the  carpet,  which,  deprived  of  all  Miss  Bethune's 
rugs,  was  thin  and  poor.  The  doctor  thought  of 
changing  his  lodging  himself,  in  the  depression  of 
that  change ;  but  it  is  a  serious  matter  for  a 
doctor  to  change  his  abode,  and  Janie's  anaemia 
was  becoming  a  serious  case,  and  wanted  more 
looking  after  than  ever  would  be  given  to  it  were 
he  out  of  the  way.  So  he  consented  to  the 
inevitable,  and  remained.  Mrs.  Simcox  had  to 
refurnish  the  second  floor,  when  all  Mr.  Manner- 
ing's  pretty  furniture  and  his  books  were  taken 
av.?ay,  and  did  it  very  badly,  as  was  natural,  and 
got  "a  couple"  for  her  lodgers,  who  were  quite 
satisfied  with  second-hand  mahogany  and  hair- 
cloth. Dr.  Roland  looked  at  the  nev;  lodgers 
when  he  met  them  with  eyes  blank,  and  a  total 

(299) 


300  A  House  771  Bloomsbury. 

absence  of  interest :  but  beofinninof  soon  to  see 
that  the  stock  market  was  telling  upon  the  first 
floor,  and  that  the  lady  on  the  second  had  a 
couQrh,  he  beo-an  to  allow  himself  a  little  to  be 
shaken  out  of  his  indifference.  They  might, 
however,  be  objects  of  professional  interest,  but 
no  more.  The  Mannerings  were  abroad.  After 
that  great  flash  in  the  pan  of  a  return  to  the 
Museum,  Nature  had  reclaimed  her  rights,  and 
Mr.  Mannering  had  been  obliged  to  apply  for  a 
prolonged  leave,  which  by  degrees  led  to  retire- 
ment and  a  pension.  Miss  Bethune  had  returned 
to  her  native  country,  and  to  the  old  house  near 
the  Highland  line  which  belonged  to  her.  Vague 
rumours  that  she  was  not  Miss  Bethune  at  all, 
but  a  married  lady  all  the  time,  had  reached 
Bloomsbury ;  but  nobody  knew,  as  Mrs.  Simcox 
said,  what  were  the  rights  of  the  case. 

In  a  genial  autumn,  some  years  after  the  above 
events.  Dr.  Roland,  who  had  never  ceased  to  keep 
a  hold  upon  his  former  neighbours,  whose  depar- 
ture had  so  much  saddened  his  life,  arrived  on  a 
visit  at  that  Hiorhland  home.  It  was  a  ramblinof 
house,  consisting  of  many  additions  and  enlarge- 
ments built  on  to  the  original  fabric  of  a  small, 
strait,  and  high  semi-fortified  dwelling-place, 
breathing  that  air  of  austere  and  watchful  de- 
fence which  lingers  about  some  old  houses, 
though  the  parlours  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
not  to  say  the  drawing-rooms  of  the  nineteenth, 
with  their  broad  open  windows,  accessible  from 
the  ground,  were  strangely  unlike  the  pointed 
tall  gable  with  its  crow  steps,  and  the  high  post 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury.  30 1 

of  watchfulness  up  among  the  roofs,  the  little 
balcony  or  terrace  which  swept  the  horizon  on 
ever}'  side.  There  Miss  Bethune,  still  Miss 
Bethune,  abode  in  the  fulness  of  a  life  which 
sought  no  further  expansion,  among  her  own 
people.  She  had  called  to  her  a  few  of  the  most 
ancient  and  trusted  friends  of  the  family  on  her 
first  arrival  there,  and  had  disclosed  to  them  her 
secret  story,  and  asked  their  advice.  She  had 
never  borne  her  husband's  name.  There  had 
been  no  break,  so  far  as  any  living  person  except 
Gilchrist  was  aware,  in  the  continuity  of  her  life. 
The  old  servants  were  dead,  and  the  old  minister, 
who  had  been  coaxed  and  frightened  into  per- 
forming a  furtive  ceremony.  No  one  except 
Gilchrist  was  aware  of  any  of  those  strange  events 
which  had  gone  on  in  the  maze  of  little  rooms 
and  crooked  passages.  Miss  Bethune  was  strong 
in  the  idea  of  disclosing  everything  when  she 
returned  home.  She  meant  to  publish  her  strange 
and  painful  story  among  her  friends  and  to  the 
world  at  large,  and  to  acknowledge  and  put  in 
his  right  place,  as  she  said,  her  son.  A  small 
knot  of  grave  county  gentlemen  sat  upon  the 
matter,  and  had  all  the  evidence  placed  before 
them  in  order  to  decide  this  question. 

Harry  Gordon  himself  was  the  first  to  let  them 
know  that  his  claims  were  more  than  doubtful  — 
that  they  were,  in  fact,  contradicted  by  his  own 
recollections  and  everything  he  really  knew  about 
himself ;  and  Mr.  Templar  brought  his  report, 
which  made  it  altogether  impossible  to  believe  in 
the  relationship.     But  Miss  Bethune's  neighbours 


302  A  House  in  BJooynsbjivy. 

soon  came  to  perceive  that  these  were  nothing  to 
her  own  fervid  conviction,  which  they  only  made 
stronger  the  oftener  the  objections  were  repeated. 
She  would  not  believe  that  part  of  Mr.  Templar's 
story  which  concerned  the  child  ;  there  was  no 
documentary  proof.  The  husband's  death  could 
be  proved,  but  it  was  not  even  known  where 
that  of  the  unfortunate  baby  had  taken  place,  and 
nothing  could  be  ascertained  about  it.  She  took 
no  notice  of  the  fact  that  her  husband  and  Harry 
Gordon's  father  had  neither  died  at  the  same 
place  nor  at  the  same  time.  As  it  actually 
happened,  there  was  sufficient  analogy  between 
time  and  place  to  make  it  possible  to  imagine, 
had  there  been  no  definite  information,  that  they 
were  the  same  person.  And  this  was  more  than 
enough  for  Miss  Bethune.  She  was  persuaded 
at  last,  however,  by  the  unanimous  judgment  of 
the  friends  she  trusted,  to  depart  from  her  first 
intention,  to  make  no  scandal  in  the  countiTside 
by  changing  her  name,  and  to  leave  her  property 
to  Harry,  describing  him  as  a  relation  by  the 
mother's  side.  "It  came  to  vou  bv  will,  not  in 
direct  inheritance,"  the  chief  of  these  gentlemen  of 
the  county  said.  "  Let  it  go  to  him  in  the  same 
way.  We  all  respect  the  voice  of  nature,  and  you 
are  not  a  silly  woman,  my  dear  Janet,  to  believe  a 
thing  that  is  not :  but  the  evidence  would  not 
bear  investigation  in  a  court  of  law.  He  is  a  fine 
young  fellow,  and  has  spoken  out  like  a  gentle- 
man." 

'•As  he  has   a  g-ood   rio-ht  —  tlie  last  of  the 
Bethunes,  as  well  as  a  Gordon  of  no  mean  name!" 


A  House  in  Bloonisbury.  303 

"  Just  so,"  said  the  convener  of  the  county ; 
*'  there  is  nobody  here  that  will  not  give  him  his 
hand.  But  you  have  kept  the  secret  so  long,  it 
is  my  opinion  you  should  keep  it  still.  We  all 
know  —  all  that  are  worth  considering  —  and  what 
is  the  use  of  making  a  scandal  and  an  outcry 
among  all  the  silly  auld  wives  of  the  countryside  ? 
And  leave  him  your  land  by  will,  as  the  nearest 
relation  you  care  to  acknowledge  on  his  mother's 
side." 

This  was  the  decision  that  was  finally  come  to  ; 
and  Miss  Bethune  was  not  less  a  happy  mother, 
nor  Harry  Gordon  the  less  a  good  son,  that  the 
relationship  between  them  was  quite  beyond  the 
reach  of  proof,  and  existed  really  in  the  settled 
conviction  of  one  brain  alone.  The  delusion 
made  her  happy,  and  it  gave  him  a  generous 
reason  for  acquiescing  in  the  change  so  much  to 
his  advantage  which  took  place  in  his  life. 

The  Mannerings  arrived  at  Beaton  Castle 
shortly  after  the  doctor,  on  their  return  from  the 
Continent.  Dora  was  now  completely  woman- 
grown,  and  had  gradually  and  tacitly  taken  the 
command  of  her  father  and  all  his  ways.  He  had 
been  happy  in  the  certainty  that  when  he  left  off 
work  and  consented  to  take  that  long  rest,  it  was 
his  own  income  upon  which  they  set  out  —  an 
income  no  longer  encumbered  with  any  debts  to 
pay,  even  for  old  books.  He  had  gone  on  happily 
upon  that  conviction  ever  since ;  they  had  tra- 
velled a  great  deal  together,  and  he  had  com- 
pletely recovered  his  health,  and  in  a  great  degree 
his   interest,  both   in   science  and   life.     He  had 


304  A  House  in  Bloomsbury. 

even  taken  up  those  studies  which  had  been  in- 
terrupted by  the  shipwreck  of  his  happiness,  and 
the  breaking  up  of  his  existence,  and  had  recently 
pubHshed  some  of  the  resuks  of  them,  with  a 
sudden  Hghting  up  once  again  of  the  fame  of  the 
more  youthful  Mannering,  from  whom,  such  great 
things  had  been  expected.  The  more  he  had 
become  interested  in  work  and  the  pursuits  of 
knowledge,  the  less  he  had  known  or  thought  of 
external  affairs  ;  and  for  a  long  time  Dora  had 
acted  very  much  as  she  pleased,  increasing  such 
luxuries  as  he  liked,  and  encouraging  every  one 
of  the  extravagances  into  which,  v/hen  left  to 
himself,  he  naturally  fell.  Sometimes  still  he 
would  pause  over  an  expensive  book,  with  a  half 
hesitation,  half  apology. 

"  But  perhaps  we  cannot  afford  it.  I  ought 
not  to  give  myself  so  many  indulgences,  Dora." 

"  You  know  how  little  we  spend,  father,"  Dora 
would  .say,  — "  no  house  going  on  at  home  to 
.swallow  up  the  money.  We  live  for  next  to 
nothing  here."  And  he  received  her  statement 
with  implicit  faith. 

Thus  both  the  elder  personages  of  this  history 
were  deceived,  and  found  a  great  part  of  their 
happiness  in  it.  Was  it  a  false  foundation  of 
happiness,  and  wrong  in  every  way,  as  Dr.  Roland 
maintained  ?  He  took  these  two  young  people 
into  the  woods,  and  read  them  the  severest  of 
lessons. 

"You  are  two  lies,"  he  said;  "you  are  de- 
ceiving two  people  who  are  of  more  moral  worth 
than  either  of  you.     It  is  probably  not  your  fault, 


A  House  in  Bloomsbury,  305 

but  that  of  some  wicked  grandmother ;  but  you 
ought  to  be  told  it,  all  the  same.  And  I  don't 
say  that  I  blame  you.  I  daresay  I  should  do  it 
also  in  your  case.  But  it's  a  shame,  all  the  same." 
"  In  the  case  of  my  —  mistress,  my  friend,  my 
all  but  mother,"  said  young  Gordon,  with  some 
emotion,  "  the  deceit  is  all  her  own.  I  have  said 
all  I  could  say,  and  so  have  her  friends.  We  have 
proved  to  her  that  it  could  not  be  I,  everything 
has  been  put  before  her  ;  and  if  she  determines, 
after  all  that,  that  I  am  the  man,  what  can  I  do  ? 
I  return  her  affection  for  affection  cordially,  for 
who  was  ever  so  good  to  any  one  as  she  is  to  me  ? 
And  I  serve  her  as  her  son  might  do.  I  am  of 
use  to  her  actually,  though  you  may  not  think  it. 
And  why  should  I  try  to  wound  her  heart,  by 
reasserting  that  I  am  not  what  she  thinks,  and 
that  she  is  deceived  ?  I  do  my  best  to  satisfy, 
not  to  deceive  her.  Therefore,  do  not  say  it ;  I 
am  no  lie." 

"All  very  well  and  very  plausible,"  said  the 
doctor,  "  but  in  no  wise  altering  my  opinion.  And, 
Miss  Dora,  what  have  you  got  to  say?" 

"I  say  nothing,"  said  Dora;  "there  is  no 
deceit  at  all.  If  you  only  knew  how  particular  I 
am!  Father's  income  suffices  for  himself ;  he  is 
not  in  debt  to  any  one.  He  has  a  good  income 
—  a  very  good  income  —  four  hundred  a  year, 
enough  for  any  single  man.  Don't  you  think  so  ? 
I  have  gone  over  it  a  great  many  times,  and  I  am 
sure  he  does  not  spend  more  than  that  —  not  so 
much  ;  the  calculation  is  all  on  paper.  Do  you 
remember  teaching  me  to  do  accounts  long  ago  ? 

20 


3o6  A  House  in  Bloovisbtiry.    , 

I  am  very  good  at  it  now.  Father  is  not  bound 
to  keep  me,  when  there  are  other  people  who  will 
keep  on  sending  me  money  :  and  he  has  quite 
enough  —  too  much  for  himself;  then  where  is  the 
deceit,  or  shame  either  ?  My  conscience  is  quite 
clear. 

'*  You  are  two  special  pleaders,"  the  doctor 
said  ;  "  you  are  too  many  for  me  when  you  are 
together.  I'll  get  you  apart,  and  convince  you  of 
your  sin.  And  what,"  he  cried  suddenly,  taking 
them  by  surprise,  "my  fine  young  sir  and  madam, 
would  happen  if  either  one  or  other  of  you  took  it 
into  your  heads  to  marry  ?  That  is  what  I  should 
like  to  know." 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  as 
it  were  in  a  flash  of  crimson  light,  which  seemed 
to  fly  instantaneously  from  one  to  another.  They 
looked  first  at  him,  and  then  exchaneed  one  liorht- 
ning  glance,  and  then  each  turned  a  little  aside  on 
either  side  of  the  doctor.  Was  it  to  hide  that 
something  which  was  nothing,  that  spontaneous, 
involuntary'  momentary  interchange  of  looks,  from 
his  curious  eyes  ?  Dr.  Roland  was  struck  as  by 
that  harmless  lightning.  He,  the  expert,  had 
forgotten  what  contagion  there  might  be  in  the 
air.  They  were  both  tall,  both  fair,  two  slim 
figures  in  their  youthful  grace,  embodiments  of 
all  that  was  hopeful,  strong,  and  lifelike.  The 
doctor  had  not  taken  into  consideration  certain 
effects  known  to  all  men  which  are  not  in  the 
books.  "  Whew-ew ! "  he  breathed  in  a  long 
whistle  of  astonishment,  and  said  no  more. 

THE    END. 


The  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  of 
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FOUR  NOVELS  WORTH  READING 


Stiringtown  on  the  Pike 

By  John  Uri  Lloyd 
121710.     Illustrated.     §1.50 

A  Kentucky  story  whose  scope  is  as  wide  as  thie  country  itselt. 
A  book  which  none  but  an  American  could  write. 

The  Maid  of  Maiden  Lane 

By  .Amelia  E.   Barr 

lamo.     Illustrated.     81.50. 

The  thousands  who  have  read  "  The  Bow  of  Orange  Ribbon"  will 
enjoy  a  re-introduction  to  some  old  friends. 

The  Master  Christian 

By  Marie  Corelli 

i2mo.     Cloth.     8 1. 50. 

In  this  novel  the  author  has  surpassed  all  her  former  efforts. 
The  most  widely  discussed  book  of  the  day. 

The  Isle  of  Unrest 

By  Henry  Seton  Merriman 

i2mo.     Illustrated.     $1.50. 

A  thrilling  story  of  Corsica  and  Southern  France  during  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war,  having  all  the  epigrammatic  charm  of  "The 
Sowers." 


Dodd^  Mead  &  Company,  Publishers 
New  York 


/  ^i- 


1         I 

DATE  DUE 

M^'ii  2 

5\9I41  ' 

'O-'/f    >?- 

NOV  2 

L  1976^  ^ 

r 

m^ 

71       1  ^  '  ^^      ^^ 

i 

1 

CAYLORD 

PRINT  EO  IN  U    S.A 

3   1210  00071   4236 


-fm 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  551  223    i 


